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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27693031">A Court of Bodyguards and Side Glances</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemisausten/pseuds/Artemisausten'>Artemisausten</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Human, Attempt at Humor, Bodyguard, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fae Lucien, Fluff and Humor, Human Feyre Archeron, Humor, I can easily be convinced to make this smutty, I just felt like writing it okay, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lucien is kind of evil, Mates, Past Domestic Violence, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rating May Change, References Past Rape, Rhys needs a hug, Romance, Tamlin is super evil, but there's hope for him yet, fae Azriel, fae Cassian, fae Tamlin, just for fun, rhys is still fae, tags will likely change too, there is definitely a plan here now</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:47:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>36,915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27693031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemisausten/pseuds/Artemisausten</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhys doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t break his gaze from her not-painting. “You made me skip breakfast.”<br/>“You’re such an asshole.”<br/>“You made me skip breakfast,” he repeats. “And a shower.”<br/>Feyre’s face is actually sore from scowling at Rhys so deeply. “Poor fae baby. He missed his breakfast and a shower. You probably don’t even need a shower,” Feyre says dismissively. “You probably have some kind of fae magic that lets you just wave your hand and suddenly you’re perfect again.”<br/>Rhys’ lips twitch in amusement as he looks toward Feyre now. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t done that in years,” he replies. “But I like that you’ve admitted to yourself that I’m perfect.”<br/>_________________________<br/>An AU story where Tamlin is dangerous (and super evil), the Inner Circle run a PI/bodyguard firm (who are hired to protect Feyre from Tamlin), and I probably make way too many references to how perfect Rhys' voice and body are (because...okay, that doesn't really need explanation, does it?). Because I felt like writing it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Azriel/Rhysand (ACoTaR), Elain Archeron &amp; Azriel, Elain Archeron &amp; Lucien Vanserra, Elain Archeron/Azriel, Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron &amp; Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Tamlin, Nesta Archeron/Cassian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>175</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>              It’s not that Feyre has anything specifically against Rhys, she thinks as she quietly surveys the fae with an artist’s eye. Quite the opposite, in fact—the fae sitting next to her is tall and muscular, with feline features and the kind of smooth grace that only the fae can master as if it were perfectly ordinary. She wouldn’t describe him as handsome, she thinks, so much as beautiful to the point of perfection, with hair so dark that it seems to radiate night itself and eyes such a vibrant, violet blue that just looking into them makes her want to paint them.</p><p>              <em>And his voice</em>… “I take it that you like what you see, Feyre, darling?”</p><p>              His voice does things to her, Feyre thinks, unconsciously licking her lips and clenching her knees closed more tightly. “I don’t know what you mean,”  Feyre tries to shrug the comment off as nonchalantly as she can, turning away from him and looking out the front window of the car as she pretends to focus on something, <em>anything</em> other than the fae man—no, she corrects herself, <em>male</em>—beside her.</p><p>              A cocky grin lights up Rhys’ face and Feyre’s stomach tightens just a little as she can practically <em>feel</em> the smug delight in his expression. His eyes pin her to the seat in the passenger side of the car as he drives, only half paying attention to the road. Rhys is quietly sizing her up, the same way he does with all his clients and anyone he does business with, really. He thinks that his favorite thing about her so far is the number of times he’s caught her looking at him in the short amount of time that he’s been on the job. At least, he thinks, she has good taste.</p><p>              Well, he amends the thought as he remembers why he’s here, she has good taste <em>some </em>of the time, anyway.</p><p>              “You’ve been staring at me since we left the office,” Rhys tells her, not bothering to hide his own amusement at the fact. As humans go, he thinks, she’s not bad looking—pretty, in a half-starved, too headstrong for her own good, definitely has trust issues sort of way. He doesn’t mind if she looks.</p><p>              Feyre turns to him and scowls, offended at the observation. “I was <em>not</em>.”</p><p>              Lie, she thinks. Complete lie. She absolutely was.</p><p>              Rhys just laughs, the sound of it melodic and contagious in way that Feyre doesn’t understand. It makes her want to laugh, too. Or smile. She wants to live in that laugh, soak it up, for a good long while. “You know you were,” Rhys replies, his eyes crinkling as he half grins at her. “It’s okay—you don’t have to deny it. I <em>am</em> quite handsome.”</p><p>              He really is, she thinks, and then hates herself for the thought. He’s exactly what she expects from the fae. Arrogant. Rude. Obnoxious. She’s only been in the car with him for fifteen minutes and she already wants to yank open the door and fling herself out of it so she can get away from him.</p><p>              Mostly.</p><p>              A little bit.</p><p>              She can stand to sit here for a while longer. If she absolutely has to. So she can escape the car more safely.</p><p>              Feyre shakes her head to dislodge all those pesky thoughts—the ones about what Rhys’ voice does to her—and clears her throat. She tries to square her shoulders and face him with something resembling poise or dignity, but it all melts away the minute she feels those blue eyes on her again. “I’m an artist,” she says indignantly, more forcefully than she had meant to. “I was merely taking an inventory of your features.” She can only bring herself to look at him straight on for so long before she turns back to the road, determined not to let him get to her.</p><p>              “An inventory?” Rhys asks, as if he doesn’t quite believe her.</p><p>              “Yes, an inventory,” Feyre insists, trying desperately to force her mind to work when she can feel those deep, perfect blue eyes on her. “For science.”</p><p>              Rhys’ grin becomes impossibly wide and almost predatory as he looks toward the road again. “I see, it’s for science,” he echoes. Feyre nods in agreement, not meeting his gaze. “Well, you know, if you’re going to make an inventory to work from,” Rhys drawls, noticing how Feyre shifts in her seat the more he talks and enjoying how it seems to bother her in all the right ways, “then I’m always happy to model for you, Feyre, darling.” Feyre feels her pulse jump just a little at the suggestion, trying to ignore how very <em>awake</em> her body is to the sound of his voice, the way it seems to warm her core. “Of course, nude would be best.”</p><p>              Feyre looks at him sharply, a blush creeping up her neck as her blue-grey eyes narrow at him. She’s going to kill Nesta, she decides. The moment she gets home.</p><p>              No way in hell is Rhysand Night going to be her bodyguard.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Part Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>              If Feyre could do a rolling leap from the car and propel herself the last of the way toward the front door of her family’s home, she would have just to get away from Rhys. He’s insufferable, she thinks as she slams the passenger door of his dark blue car—some fae model that she can’t be bothered to remember the name of—closed vehemently. She doesn’t like that he thinks he has her all figured out. Or the way that he seems to enjoy making her squirm when he talks. Or that he thinks he’s some god’s gift to mortal women, apparently.</p>
<p>              Even if he <em>is</em> hard to look away from, she thinks to herself.</p>
<p>              Rhys just steps out of the car lazily, pulling his dark sunglasses down a bit as he watches Feyre pace to the front door of the family house. She pauses halfway through the front sidewalk, right beside a row of bright yellow lilies that mark one section of a very landscaped front yard, and sneezes. She reaches up and rubs a frustrated hand under her nose before sneezing again, that honey brown hair falling from behind her ears as she does. He should be walking her to the door, he thinks. His job is to protect her, after all. He’s supposed to be following her, checking out any places she goes to make sure it’s safe <em>before</em> she steps inside.</p>
<p>              He’s <em>not</em> supposed to be standing behind, watching her stomp her way up white wooden steps, eyes trailing over her form as she unlocks the elaborately decorated double doors and pushes her way inside.</p>
<p>              But, he thinks, he has learned a few things about her in the short time that they’ve spent together, and research <em>is</em> part of the job. Feyre’s allergic to flowers. She considers herself an artist, which means that it wasn’t just Nesta embellishing to Cassian. She’s nervous around him, although he’s not sure whether that’s because he’s fae or a male. It could be that he’s fae, he considers—after all, human-fae relations aren’t great right now.</p>
<p>              Not that they ever really are, that is.</p>
<p>              The question bothering Rhys, however, is how he needs to worry about her past interfering with his doing his job. Is it just that <em>he</em> makes her nervous, or has her past with this Tamlin character left her with bigger problems?</p>
<p>              He closes the car door and takes a long look down both sides of the street, noting each house and car and trying to commit them to memory. It’s a quiet street, at least, and it’ll be easy to recognize anything out of place the more time he spends here. But it’s also open, he decides, which means that if Feyre is out here alone, she could be more vulnerable. He takes another sweeping look at the street and turns to follow Feyre inside, thinking that he needs to talk to Cassian about putting some cameras in to view the street.</p>
<p>              The yard really is well-landscaped as Rhys makes his way to the front door, noting how Feyre didn’t bother to close or lock it behind here. He can hear the sound of her voice as he steps inside, closing the door behind him and glancing over the large front room quickly, noting all the details he can without losing track of the conversation reaching him from the next room.</p>
<p>
  <em>              “I don’t know what the hell you were thinking—”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>              “I was thinking that since <strong>you</strong> couldn’t be bothered to take care of the problem yourself—”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>              “There’s no fucking problem, Nesta.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>              “He’s stalking you—”</em>
</p>
<p>              It’s a tastefully decorated foyer, he thinks. The floor is tiled in a light cream color. There’s a table with a glass top and a crystal vase of flowers in the center, something fresh and heavily scented that Rhys doesn’t recognize but that he’s sure must set Feyre off the same way the lilies did.</p>
<p>              <em>“He’s not stalking me—”</em></p>
<p>
  <em>              “Why can’t you just admit that you need help?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>              “What, so you went to a <strong>fae</strong>?”</em>
</p>
<p>Rhys almost flinches at the tone of her voice when she mentions the fae, the condescension and dislike almost as thick as the smell from the flowers. It’s not like he hasn’t heard it before, isn’t prepared for it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t bother him. He paces forward a little, his feet silent as they ghost over the floor, and looks at the few paintings and photographs he can see from here. Still lifes and portraits. Nothing that stands out to him, except the family photo with who he supposes are the three Archeron sisters standing side by side, none of them looking wildly happy to be there.</p>
<p>              <em>“They’re the best at what they do.”</em></p>
<p>
  <em>              “They’re liars, every one of them, and he’ll only try and cheat you out of your money.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>              “Well, it’s my money, so I guess you don’t have to worry about it.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>              “I don’t need a fucking bodyguard.”</em>
</p>
<p>Rhys looks Feyre as she stalks out of the next room, pausing to stare at him as she realizes that he’s there and will have heard every word. His eyebrows shoot up, watching the brief moment of surprise and shame that flash across her face before quickly being replaced with a scowl as she pointedly turns and walks down the hallway, disappearing from his view.</p>
<p>              The only good thing that can come from this job, Rhys thinks to himself, is the hefty paycheck and watching Feyre’s hips sway as she walks away from him. That, he can appreciate.</p>
<p>              A woman who Rhys supposes is Feyre’s sister, Nesta, comes to stand in a doorway to the foyer, glaring after her sister before looking toward him. She gives him the same long, dragging look that he’d given Feyre not so long ago, although hers is decidedly more sour. As if she was sizing him up, he thinks, and found him wanting. If he was the sensitive type, he would bristle under her gaze, but there’s not a lot that bothers Rhys enough to make him lose his control. “You’re Rhysand.”</p>
<p>              The way she says it sounds like an accusation. “I am.”</p>
<p>              She sighs, her steely gaze seeming to burn into him. “You’re <em>not</em> what I was expecting.”</p>
<p>              Those eyebrows shoot up again as Rhys takes a step toward him. “And what was that?”</p>
<p>              Nesta <em>does</em> bristle under his gaze as he meets that look of hers. “When I spoke to Cassian, he assured me that you would be a professional—that your firm is the very best at what you do.”</p>
<p>              Rhys slowly grins, showing his teeth in a gesture that he knows appears predatory as he mentally makes a note to throttle Cassian. “We <em>are</em> the best at what we do.” Not that their paychecks have been showing it lately. Gods damned anti-fae legislation, limiting how and where they can practice. “Although we don’t work with humans much.”</p>
<p>              Nesta gives him a long, hard stare that says that she prefers not to work with fae much and Rhys is almost ready to quit then and there, paying the rent be damned. “I expect you and your team to take this very seriously,” she says finally. “My sister is in danger.”</p>
<p>              “Your sister doesn’t seem to think so.”</p>
<p>              Nesta scowls and for a moment Rhys thinks that she and Feyre could almost be twins—two sides of the same stubborn, spoiled coin. “Feyre doesn’t realize how easily Tamlin’s little crush is turning into obsession. She isn’t thinking about the consequences.”</p>
<p>              “And you are?”</p>
<p>              Now that scowl of hers deepens, to a dark sort of expression that Rhysand can almost recognize from his own face. “I’m being practical. Feyre needs to looked after. She’s used to doing what she wants and getting her way, and she isn’t thinking things through.”</p>
<p>              So she’s a brat, Rhys thinks. He guesses that it probably runs in the family.</p>
<p>              “I was assured that you were more than capable of handling this,” Nesta snaps, crossing her arms over the chest. “I’ve already paid your firm in advance for your services.”</p>
<p>              If he was a better male, if he had more pride, if he could pay the rent for his offices <em>and</em> afford to buy dinner without her money, Rhys would walk away and let the Archeron sisters sort out this mess themselves. They clearly don’t agree that he even needs to be here. They obviously don’t really <em>want</em> him here. And Rhys thinks that he has better things to do than babysit an artist who can’t decide if she wants to stare at him or if she hates him.</p>
<p>              But Cassian’s already spent some of that money to pay the bills. So, like it or not, Rhys is going to see the job through. He gives her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You have nothing to worry about, Ms. Archeron. We’re giving this job our full attention.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>              They are absolutely <em>not</em> giving this case their full attention, Rhys thinks as he listens to Cassian arguing with Amren on the other end of the cell phone. He paces the upstairs hallway where Feyre has retreated, giving him an almost glare as she slammed the door in his face and declared that she needed privacy. Rhys supposes that at least that means he doesn’t have to babysit her for a while—and it <em>is</em> beginning to feel like a babysitting job between how Feyre is acting and the age gap between them—and he can check in with Cassian and become familiar with the grounds.</p><p>              <em>“You’re doing it <strong>wrong</strong>.”</em></p><p>
  <em>              “I am <strong>not</strong> doing it wrong.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>              “You’re going to short out the whole office, boy.”</em>
</p><p>              “Remind me again,” Rhys cuts in impatiently, eyes roaming a hallway painted the same cream color as the foyer, “why we took this case.”</p><p>              He can hear Cassian groan as there’s a noise in the background that sounds faintly like a spark of electricity and Amren growling. “What case?”</p><p>              The fact that he asked that question at all isn’t encouraging to Rhys, who makes mental notes of the length of the hallway, how many rooms there are besides Feyre’s, and the number of windows. He counts his steps as he follows the winding path from the beginning of the staircase to the upper floor toward Feyre’s bedroom and around past three more doors. “Feyre Archeron,” he reminds Cassian impatiently, keeping his voice level so he won’t be overheard by anyone behind closed doors.</p><p>              <em>“That’s not the right wire.”</em></p><p><em>              “I <strong>know</strong></em> <em>what I’m doing.”</em></p><p>Rhys pulls the phone away from his ear as he hears Cassian yelp and can’t decide whether to grin or grimace at the noise. The office was due for repairs months ago, which is likely why they got it at such a cheap price, but no one is happy with the move from Velaris to Hewn City—especially when it comes to their new place of business. Still, he thinks, it <em>was</em> Cassian’s idea and it is <em>his</em> fault that Rhys is where he is, so maybe Cassian has a little pain coming to him. There’s another yelp from Cassian and a growl of impatience from Amren.</p><p>              <em>“Move over, boy, and let me do it.</em>”</p><p>              “Who?” Cassian’s voice is tinged with annoyance and pain when he finally talks into the phone again.</p><p>              Rhys really is thinking of quitting now. They better actually be getting paid for this. “Feyre Archeron. Her sister Nesta says she’s in danger and <em>they paid in advance</em>.”</p><p>              “Oh, right. <em>Nesta.</em>” Rhys can hear the grin curling Cassian’s lips as he says her name, see that ridiculous look of self-satisfaction on his face as he remembers the oldest Archeron sister. She was tall, Rhys thinks for Cassian, skinny in that human watching-everything-she-eats kind of way, tough as nails and with perfectly formed cheek bones.</p><p>              And some perfectly formed other parts, too, from Cassian’s perspective.</p><p>              “Yes, Nesta.” Rhys walks to the window, peering outside. It’s a nice view. He can see most of the street from here. Nothing much has changed, although there’s a new car a couple houses down.</p><p>              Black, he catalogues. Lightly tinted windows. A little old and not as fancy as he’d expect for this street, but maybe it’s someone’s first car or someone’s visiting. Still, he wishes he could be at a better angle to see the license plate.</p><p>              “What about her?”</p><p>              They are <em>definitely</em> not giving this case their full attention. “<em>Why</em> did you think this job was a good idea?”</p><p>              There’s a noise as if Cassian is sucking his thumb for a long moment. “She paid us. <em>A lot</em>.” It was as simple as that, although Rhys could still feel a little glee on the other end of the phone. Maybe it was his powers, whatever little was left of them, but Rhys could always tell what was happening on the other end of a phone call—with his friends, at least. “And it’s an easy job. All you have to do is look after Feyre for a few days until we’re sure that the boyfriend isn’t a problem.”</p><p>              “And we’re sure that Tamlin <em>is</em> a problem?” Rhys turns away from the window and walks down the other end of the hallway, pacing back toward the stairwell, counting his steps. He hates to leave the view, the warmth of the sun as it peaks through the glass in one of the few cloudless days he’s seen in weeks, but he’s working. He can sun-bathe when they all go back to Velaris for a break after the job is over.</p><p>              If Velaris is still there, anyway.</p><p>              “But why us? They don’t seem all that happy about the fae in this family.”</p><p>              Cassian shrugs. “They wanted the best,” he replies with a self-satisfied grin. “Look, Azriel is out there right now, doing what he does best. So just relax, take in the sights,” Rhys can see the grin on Cassian’s face turn almost lecherous at that comment, “and it’ll be over before you know it.”</p><p>              A door creaks open behind Rhys and he turns to see Feyre finally stepping back out of her room, her hair pulled up in a messy bun and a soft blue scarf in her hands as she barely glances in his direction before turning toward the stairs.</p><p>              “Right.” Rhys moves quickly to follow her as she takes the stairs two steps at a time and he almost wants to tell her to take it more slowly because she looks like if she fell, she might break herself, but he doesn’t. It’s not his job to protect her from the stairs. “Tell me what he comes up with.”</p><p>              “Will do.”</p><p>              The call ends and Rhys tucks his phone into the pocket of his pants, grabbing his winter coat quickly from where it’s sitting on the table in the foyer. He has to charge forward to grab Feyre’s wrist before she can open the front door and charge outside on her own. “Where are you going?”</p><p>              Feyre turns to him and glares. She’d pull her wrist away from him if his grip wasn’t so firm.</p><p>              And if he didn’t smell so good, like fresh rain. That smell doesn’t come out of a bottle, she thinks absently—that smell is all fae and distinctly…<em>male</em>. She doesn’t have a better way to describe it. Male and warm and she wants more of it.</p><p>              She <em>should</em> try to pull away. She just doesn’t exactly want to, and she’s not completely sure why.</p><p>              “I have studio time to log,” Feyre says, her voice a little sharp as her lips pulls down into a scowl. “And a project to finish for my degree. <em>And</em> a gallery showing in two days. So, <em>I</em> need to work.” She holds back the thoughts that come afterward, that she needs to work away from this house, away from her sisters. Away, she thinks, from him and that smell and those blue eyes that are gazing down at her and that seem to freeze her in place when she meets them.</p><p>              She can’t think in this place. She can’t focus. She sure as hell can’t paint. She needs the quiet of the studio.</p><p>              “Well, <em>I</em> need to do my job and keep you safe,” Rhys responds evenly, his grip on her wrist not moving. He can feel her pulse racing under his palm, hear the sound of her heart beating wildly in her chest. There’s something else from her, too, he thinks. A nervousness, maybe. He can smell it on her, he thinks, he just can’t place it. “Which means that you wait for me before you go anywhere, and I go first to make sure it’s safe.”</p><p>              Now Feyre does try to pull her arm away from him, rolling her eyes and letting out a frustrated sigh. Rhys still doesn’t let her wrist go, isn’t going to risk her charging out ahead of him. If he’s going to do this job, he thinks, he’s going to do it right. He’s not going to let anything happen to her. But he does relax his grip on her a little bit, holds on as he gives her enough room to move her arm.</p><p>              “I’m perfectly safe. Nesta is overreacting,” Feyre insists. “Look, she has a history and it tends to make her overly cautious, but that has nothing to do with me and <em>I</em> have things that I have to do.”</p><p>              Nesta has a history…the words aren’t lost on Rhys. He wonders if Cassian thought to get Azriel to do background on the family as well. He would have to talk to Cassian about it. He doubted if Nesta would be terribly cooperative if he tried to approach the issue with her. “Be that as it may, I was still hired to do a job and that means you have to cooperate.” At the sour look on her face, Rhys quickly adds, “If it turns out to be nothing—”</p><p>              “Which it will—”</p><p>              “<em>Then</em> you can do whatever the hell you want. But until then, you’ll just have to deal with it.”</p><p>              Rhys gives Feyre his best, most strict look, somewhere between saying he doesn’t give a shit what she does with her time while also conveying that he’s not someone she wants to fuck with. All she has to do is tell him where she’s going for a few days and work with him just a little bit, and both of their lives will be a lot easier.</p><p>              That couldn’t really be that hard for her to manage, he thinks.</p><p>              Feyre gazes at him, her expression all sour distaste, for a long moment before taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, biting her lower lip and giving him a small nod. “Okay, <em>Rhysand</em>,” she replies, and Rhys can tell that she’s definitely not on board with the plan, even if she’s acting like she’s going to play along. “I have to go to the studio for class so I can actually graduate on time. If you could drive me,” she pauses and looks toward the front door, where Rhys’ car is waiting in the driveway, “then that would be nice.”</p><p>              Rhys can see her left eyebrow twitching, just faintly, as she looks at him. Feyre bites her lower lip again, and Rhys can tell that her pulse just quickened the tiniest bit. He knows she’s up to something. And gods damn it if he doesn’t want to take her back upstairs and lock her in the bedroom for the next few days until he can hear back from Azriel about who Tamlin is and decide how they should handle him. But he has a feeling that won’t go over well with her sister and that Feyre will only become even more uncooperative if he does, so he decides to let go of her arm and reaches toward the door, opening it and looking away from her only long enough to check that it’s safe before ushering her outside.</p><p>              Feyre, for her part, just rolls her eyes again and walks to his car, Rhys’ hand on her lower back as he looks up and down the street. She waits just long enough for him to check the car quickly and yanks the door handle, stepping inside and slamming it closed behind her as Rhys reminds himself that he’s survived two fae wars—he can survive a twenty-year-old human with an attitude for a few days.</p><p>              <em>She </em>may not survive, he thinks quietly, but he sure as hell can.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            If this was Feyre’s plan, Rhys thinks, he’s far from impressed.</p><p>              He’s taken up a post leaning against the wall behind her as she sketches on the large pad of paper propped on the easel in front of her, hesitantly moving her hand this way and that as she frowns and leans around to view the model standing in front of her.</p><p>              The nude model. Rhys can’t help the slight smirk that tugs at his lips. The <em>male</em> nude model. He supposes that she meant to be embarrass him or make him uncomfortable—humans <em>do</em> have a more complicated relationship with sexuality than fae, after all. They’re only just becoming accepting of anything other than heterosexuality. Meanwhile, Rhys has lived for over five centuries and had numerous lovers who were male, female, or whatever else they may personally identify as. He’s seen more naked males in his time than he imagines Feyre could ever encounter in her short human life. A little nudity is hardly going to make Rhys do much more than evaluate, and perhaps appreciate, the view.</p><p>              Feyre, on the other hand, keeps shifting uncomfortably in her seat. She’s keenly aware that she has an audience, the same way that she’s keenly aware that drawing the male form isn’t her strong suit. She’s better as still lifes, she thinks, and she still hasn’t figured out how to shape anything from the waist down quite right.</p><p>              And it’s really, <em>really</em> hard to concentrate knowing that Rhys is standing behind her, completely unphased, watching her every move.</p><p>              He was supposed to scowling and standing in the corner awkwardly, trying to look anywhere <em>but</em> at the model, she thinks in annoyance. “You’ve drawn his cock too big.” She squeals and jumps in her seat at Rhys’ voice in her ear, knocking her supplies of pencils and charcoals to the floor as everyone in the room looks toward her in surprise. Rhys merely tucks his hands in his pants pockets in a casual gesture that makes Feyre want to hit him. She can feel herself blushing, shoulders tugging up and in as she quickly reaches to pick up her supplies and reset her workspace, straightening out her drawing pad. She scowls at Rhys and the amused look on his face.</p><p>              Asshole. “I drew it just fine,” she insists quietly, sitting back on the workbench. Rhys leans forward, his face close to ear as he peers over her shoulder and she gets another noseful of that sea and citrus smell. She could get lost in that scent, she thinks. She wishes there were a perfume of it she could buy so she could get rid of Rhys and keep his smell.</p><p>              “It looks like a banana,” Rhys says softly, his face close enough to hers that they can talk without disturbing the other students. It’s too close, Feyre thinks. She can feel the warmth of his body, the power of his muscles beneath his suit jacket as he leans mere inches from her. “A deformed banana.”</p><p>              “It does not,” Feyre snaps, just a little too loudly. The teacher turns to glare at her from where he’s critiquing another student’s work and Feyre can feel herself turning red and sinking lower under that gaze.</p><p>              “Maybe if you tried looking at it from a different angle,” Rhys suggests, unable to resist himself. He may not be uncomfortable with this situation, but she certainly is.</p><p>              Feyre turns to say something scathing to him and finds herself staring directly at him, his face close enough to hers that she can feel his breath against her skin, her long hair wisping against her cheeks and her neck as that grin widens almost imperceptibly. Her skin feels hot as she looks at him, her body all too aware of his proximity. She swallows nervously and tries to steady herself against that something, whatever is it, that her body so desperately wants to respond to. “Maybe if I had a little privacy,” she says, almost breathless. It takes everything she has to stare him down as that grin widens just a tiny bit more.</p><p>              “You need privacy with your nude model?” Despite himself, and how frustrating he’s found Feyre so far, he has to fight the urge not to brush those wisps of honey brown hair behind her ear or over her shoulder, small and smooth in delicate sort of way.</p><p>              “I need privacy and space to work,” she insists. “Neither of which you’re giving me right now.”</p><p>              There’s a feline, predatory sort of quality to Rhys that Feyre doesn’t notice until those blue eyes really lock on her and she can <em>feel</em>…something, she thinks. Something that can’t quite place. There’s something about him that seems to draw her in. Something dangerous, she thinks. Whether it’s a good kind of dangerous or a bad kind of dangerous, she isn’t sure, but it’s there. She can feel it. “Like I said in the car, Feyre, darling, if you need privacy and a nude model to work, I can arrange that.”</p><p>              <em>Yes</em>. The thought startles her when it pops into her head. Her cheeks and neck are burning, her entire body flushed and aware that Rhys is here, next to her, making her this offer. It’s a joke, she thinks—of course it’s a joke—but that doesn’t stop her from thinking about it.</p><p>              Thinking about what, exactly, Rhysand Night looks like under that nicely tailored suit of his, buttoned up to the top as he gazes down at her like a predator eyeing his prey. Wondering what it would be like to undo each of those buttons.</p><p>              It occurs to her that it really <em>has</em> been a while since she’s been with anyone. She was only with Tamlin the couple of times, and then with Isaac for a long time before that. And half of her, Feyre realizes, wouldn’t mind taking him up on that offer. Half of her would, <em>wants to</em>, say yes. Yes, she thinks, to anything he’ll offer her, joking or not.</p><p>              If he’s going to be around and getting in her way, she half decides, he might as well make himself useful and maybe satisfy a little bit of her curiosity at the same time. She’s never been with a fae before. Not many humans have.</p><p>              The other half of her, the one that recognizes the real danger here, wins out. There’s a reason that humans and fae don’t intermix. They’re incompatible. Fae are tricksters, manipulators, cheaters. Everything about them is designed to confuse or seduce you, even that beautiful arrogance that Rhys so wonderfully embodies. She should say no. She has to say no.</p><p>              It isn’t a real offer, anyway. It’s just Rhys playing with her, going out of his way to try and make her uncomfortable. The same way he did in the car earlier that day.</p><p>              She runs her tongue over dry, chapped lips and steels herself against whatever it is about him that makes her react the way she does. “Since we both know I’m safe in here, and I have work to do, maybe you can just wait outside until the class is over.”</p><p>              Rhys’ eyes follow her tongue as they trace over lips. “Am I distracting you, Feyre?”</p><p>              Feyre can’t quite find the words to respond. Luckily for her, the teacher does. “Well, if you’re not distracting her, you’re still distracting the rest of the class. So, I think you stepping outside until we’re finished is a good idea.”</p><p>              Feyre wishes she could make herself smaller as she looks slowly around the room, her classmates’ faces of mixture of awe, shame, and outright annoyance at the pair of them. Even the model is looking uncomfortable, now holding his hips in a way to try to cover himself as much as possible. She clears her throat and turns back to her drawing pad as Rhys pulls back and examines the room for himself, that predatory grin still plastered on his face. He makes a show of how very unbothered he is by it as he chuckles and says quietly to Feyre that he’ll be waiting right outside the door when she’s finished and crosses the room.</p><p>              Feyre watches as he pulls the door open and notices the second, the tiny little hesitation, in his grip on the handle as one of the other students’ murmurs something about fae scum before he finally leaves the room. The door closing behind him sounds like a <em>bang</em> to Feyre’s ears as the teacher and some of the students give her a critical look before she turns toward her pad and flips to a new page, determined to start over and pretend that whatever just happened with her and Rhysand Night didn’t just happen at all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am definitely enjoying this waaaay too much fun with this....<br/>on a side, I made a tumblr @artemisausten and have no one to follow, soo....*shrugs* if anyone is reading this and is around....</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is just me confirming that I am the literal worst at chapter breaks and pretty much just write everything out as scenes, because that's just how my brain works. I don't know. Sorry if it's short. But I always try to post more than one thing at a time, so at least there'll be more to read.</p><p>Also, I got super distracted by my Nesta/Rhys story. It's a little addicting. And I'm trying really hard not to start a story for every single idea that keeps popping into my head.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>              A studio art class is three hours long, Rhys has learned.</p><p>              <em>Three fucking hours</em>.</p><p>              Three hours waiting outside the room where Feyre is working. Three hours waiting while nothing is happening. Three hours pacing or standing by that doorway, knowing that he can’t leave until she’s finished, with those two little words echoing in his head.</p><p>              <em>Fae scum</em>.</p><p>              It’s not that it exactly bothers Rhys in that he doesn’t give two shits what some insignificant human who’s barely more than a child and likes to sit around drawing penises really thinks of him. Rhys is over five hundred years old, he reminds himself. He’s survived wars, <em>fought</em> in wars, saved lives and watched some of those closest to him die horrible deaths. He’s descended from one of the most powerful families in the history of the fae. In his time on this earth, Rhysand Night has proven to himself that there’s nothing that can diminish the truth of him, the power, the sheer force of the history that he’s left in his wake. Oh, he thinks, some have tried.</p><p>              Hybern, to name one. And Amaranatha.</p><p>              <em>Amarantha</em>. He has to fight the shiver that wants to move up his spine at the sound of her name.</p><p>              They tried, he thinks, and they failed. He’s still here. He’s still standing and fighting. He may have lost most of his power, the fae may have become nothing more than liars and thieves in the eyes of the humans. The majesty of his family name may not be what it once was. But Rhys still knows who and <em>what</em> he is—the beast lurking quietly beneath his fae form.</p><p>              No pathetic little human could ever diminish that.</p><p>              No, he thinks, it’s how easily the words are spoken, accepted. It’s how no one bats an eye, no one blinks, no one cares that such hatred is out in plain view. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, shouldn’t expect any more than that from humans. Humans and fae have a long and deeply dysfunctional history with each other. Neither side is particularly fond of the other and both prefer to keep the separation as complete as possible, if they’re honest. It was viewed as a victory for both sides, he remembers, when the wall between the fae and the humans was built, only crossed for the purposes of trade and economic survival. It’s only in very recent years that the wall has begun to crack and fae-human relations have taken center stage again.</p><p>              Mostly, he thinks, because humans can’t keep themselves to themselves and want <em>more</em>. Of everything.</p><p>              And they call the fae greedy.</p><p>              Rhys passes the time as much as he can by imagining all the ways that he could make that tiny little human take back those words, choke on them. The things he could do, if only he had the desire to. In general, Rhys decides, humans think way too much of themselves. Feyre, he thinks, is an excellent example. Pretty enough, from a well moneyed family and with enough resources and education to be welcomed into good society and find herself in a school like this, with her very own guardian looking out for her when some ex-boyfriend can’t take the hint. In reality, she’s barely more than a child herself and knows next to nothing about the real world, and he doubts that she ever will before her tiny human lifespan is over. Still, she’s certainly made some judgments about fae, and him, without really knowing anything about them.</p><p>              <em>“They’re liars, every one of them, and he’ll only try and cheat you out of your money.”</em></p><p>              If she’s lucky, he thinks, she’ll have enough time to figure out how small and insignificant she actually is in the big wide world they live in.</p><p>              But—</p><p>              There’s a but—Rhys is surprised. But, he thinks, there is something there. He’s not sure what yet, some kind of potential perhaps, <em>something</em>. He could feel when he was next to her in the studio, mixed in the sound of her heart pounding and the way her breath caught when she realized how close he was. Something in the way she looked at him, like for a moment she seemed to see past his fae heritage and might have actually said yes to his offer of being a nude model.</p><p>              Not that he’d meant it.</p><p>              Well, he thinks, not completely. Maybe just a little.</p><p>              Hell, he’d probably do it just to see Feyre’s reaction—to watch her blush and turn away and act all annoyed at his being there as if he didn’t really affect her at all and she didn’t want to take a good, long look.</p><p>              Feyre Archeron is definitely a brat, Rhys thinks, but she’s not wholly unappealing, not someone he’ll immediately write off. At the very least, he’s got until this job is done to enjoy her delightful company and find as many opportunities to make her squirm as she tries to make him uncomfortable and brush him off. And <em>that</em>, he thinks, is definitely appealing.</p><p>              He’s half lost in thought when his attention is drawn to the end of the hallway. To a shadow there. He doesn’t see anything when he looks, but his fae instincts tell him that there’s more to the story. Something is stalking the hallway of Feyre’s art college.</p><p>              Something <em>bad</em>.</p><p>He can <em>feel</em> it from here.</p><p>He’s pushing himself away from the wall he’s leaning on, mere steps from the door to where Feyre’s working, debating whether to follow it. There’s something there, he knows there’s something there, he just doesn’t know what it is or why it’s here.</p><p>But following it means leaving Feyre unprotected, and if it’s not the only thing in these halls then he could be leaving Feyre in serious danger.</p><p>He could be leaving the other humans in serious danger, too, but he wasn’t hired to protect them and they don’t seem to like him much anyway, so he’s a lot less concerned with how this turns out for them.</p><p>He’s made his decision and is about to abandon his post when that door opens and Feyre walks out, practically tripping over him as she stumbles straight into his chest and Rhys finds himself staring down at her once again, bright violet eyes gazing at her sharply with a renewed interest. She’s still flushed, he notices, but not from his presence, and it hasn’t been her full three hours of studio time.</p><p>“Aren’t you done a little early?” The question comes out a little more sharply than Rhys had intended.</p><p>Feyre looks up at him and sighs, her shoulders dropping in defeat. “I can’t work in there. It’s not right today. I’d rather leave.”</p><p>Rhys’ eyebrows go up in surprise. “It’s not right?”</p><p>Feyre really doesn’t think she should have to explain herself, but as an artist, she’s gotten used to explaining this part of how she works—if only because so many people seem unable to understand it. “It’s just not the right space. There’s too many people, too much going on. It just doesn’t <em>feel</em> right.” She huffs and gazes up at him, seeming completely unphased by how close they are for once. “It’s like using the right pencil to sketch or the right brush to paint—you can’t just make any brush work for any part of a painting that you’re working on. It <em>has</em> to be the right one.”</p><p>There’s a logic to it and there isn’t, Rhys thinks. “And this,” Rhys says, reaching out to gesture toward the studio, “is not the right brush for the job.”</p><p>Rhys thinks she’s probably a half mad, temperamental artist when her eyes light up and she smiles and nod as if he understood her perfectly. “Exactly. It’s not the right brush today. So, I’m leaving.”</p><p>“Right.” Rhys nods absently, his eyes flickering up to the end of the hallway. It’s empty now, he thinks. Whatever was there before, it’s left. He missed it. “And you’re going where, exactly?”</p><p>“Home for the night.” Feyre’s voice is laced with defeat and maybe relief to be leaving, but Rhys doesn’t really care if it means he doesn’t have to stand around in this hallway anymore. He just wishes he’d had a chance to find out what was here. Maybe, if this job turns out to be something, he’ll have another chance.</p><p>“Is something wrong?”</p><p>Rhys looks at the end of the hallway for another long moment, not even blinking in case he misses something waiting there. “No,” he says finally, his voice flat and dark. “Nothing at all.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Neither Rhys nor Feyre speak much during the ride back to her home—Rhys is too preoccupied with whatever it was that was stalking the hallway and Feyre is too preoccupied with…well, Feyre isn’t completely sure what she’s preoccupied with, but she’s feeling so out of sorts that it doesn’t really matter.</p>
<p>              What matters, she thinks, is that she couldn’t work in the studio class and, if she’s honest, she hasn’t been able to work for a while. She’s been in a creative block for weeks now, struggling each time she goes to pick up a pencil or a brush. She wants to draw, to paint, <em>to create</em>, she thinks. It’s a desperation, a compulsion. She <em>needs</em> to do something with art the same way that she needs to breathe air to survive. It’s just a part of who she is, and when she doesn’t get to do that, she gets like this—off balance and edgy and chewing on her bottom lip as she sinks into her seat and lets out the third heavy sigh of the drive.</p>
<p>              She sat in that room after Rhys left, eyes alternating between the model and the closed door where she knew Rhys was waiting for her, and she trained to get her mind to focus on the paper in front of her. She made tentative lines, light edges that were barely visible to anyone else’s eyes but her own and tried to follow the contours and shapes as she saw them. But it didn’t work.</p>
<p>              It just didn’t work.</p>
<p>              She didn’t care about the model. She didn’t care about the subject. She has no great fascination with nude art or the beauty of the male form, or whatever it is she’s supposed to be seeing in this.</p>
<p>              For a brief moment, Feyre questions whether she really belongs in this class at all. She questions whether she even belongs at this school, in this program. She questions herself as an artist. And she hates herself for it.</p>
<p>              His cock really did look like a banana in her drawing, she thinks. <em>A deformed banana</em>. Rhys wasn’t wrong.</p>
<p>              Not that she has a lot of experience to compare it to. Maybe <em>that’s</em> the problem, she thinks. Maybe she needs to make a study of male genitalia. Maybe she should start a new sketchbook devoted just to that subject.</p>
<p>              Maybe she should drop out and study something more practical, like accounting.</p>
<p>              “If you keep sighing like that,” Rhys’ voice cuts through the quiet car, an all too welcome relief to the silence, “I’m going to think you’re having trouble breathing and need a hospital.”</p>
<p>              “I’m fine,” Feyre says, irritated. Rhys half glances at her.</p>
<p>              “You seem fine,” he lies.</p>
<p>              “That’s because I am. Perfectly fine.” Her career as an artist is over before it’s started, she thinks, but she’s fine.</p>
<p>              The car comes to a stop at her house and Feyre ignores Rhys’ instructions to wait for him as she hops out of the car on her own and paces quickly to the front door, Rhys growling as he catches up behind her. She throws the door open, ignoring how she nearly hits Rhys with it, and continues toward the stairs. She pauses just long enough to spin back to face Rhys, that familiar scowl gracing her lips once more, and cross her arms over her chest. “I’m safely home for the day and I’ll be busy here all day tomorrow, so you don’t need to bother coming in to check on me.”</p>
<p>              She leaves before Rhys can even respond, taking those steps two at a time again, flipping her long hair over her shoulder as she disappears down the hall. She wants to get away from here. She wants to get away from Nesta looking over her shoulder, Elain’s moody folk music that always seems to be quietly playing in the next room, and the weight of her family’s expectations. She wants to do…something.</p>
<p>              She wants to get into a little bit of trouble.</p>
<p>              She closes the door to her bedroom with impatience and stalks toward her closet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>              Rhys is trying not to growl as he stares up at the winding staircase, where Feyre threw her tantrum. It really is beginning to feel like a babysitting job, he thinks. If he weren’t so distracted from the day, he would be grateful that she was at least home safely and he could take the rest of the night off. But he still has to talk to Cassian about getting some extra security on the house so they can see the street.</p>
<p>              And he needs to get Azriel to run more background on the family, he thinks, watching Nesta pace in her office from the corner of his eye. He can see her in the space left by the half open door, a hand to her lips as she seems to chew on a fingernail and glares at something he can’t see from where he’s standing. He has half a mind to sneak over and find out what it is when she notices he’s there and that he’s watching her. Scowling, she paces over to the door and throws it open, blocking his view of whatever had occupied her attention in the room. “Is Feyre back home now?”</p>
<p>              Rhys presses his lips closed to keep from saying that he wouldn’t really be here otherwise. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear her going upstairs.” She made enough noise for it. What <em>had</em> Nesta Archeron been focusing on so intently?</p>
<p>              Nesta’s gaze shifts from him to the clock on the wall behind him, her eyes a cold blue that felt as mesmerizing and sharp as her voice was. “It’s early.”</p>
<p>              “Apparently,” Rhys drawled, “she couldn’t focus today and wanted to come back and be left alone.”</p>
<p>              That scowl of Nesta deepens into a look that only an older sister can master, exasperation and annoyance slipping into her voice. “That means that she’s upstairs and she’s going to sneak out and get into trouble.” Nesta doesn’t miss the slight twitch of Rhys’ eyebrows. “I hope you weren’t planning an early evening for yourself. As I said earlier, I expect you to take this very seriously, and watching Feyre is a round-the-clock job.”</p>
<p>              Rhys is trying to maintain his control as he stands in the grand front room, towering over Nesta Archeron as she gives him a look that he can tell is designed to make him feel like the smaller party. He has to admit that this family is testing his patience. “I appreciate what you’re saying,” Rhys finally says through gritted teeth, the small hint of a smile on his face not exactly friendly, “but Feyre isn’t a child and <em>I’m</em> not a babysitter.”</p>
<p>              Nesta isn’t impressed. “You are while you’re being paid to look after her.”</p>
<p>              “I can’t protect someone who won’t let me do my job.” Rhys can’t put it any other way. He can’t seriously be expected to protect a subject who’s going to constantly test him and sneak off at every opportunity. If Feyre won’t take this seriously, he thinks, she might as well <em>give</em> herself to Tamlin. At least then they’d actually <em>know</em> if she was in danger rather than Nesta insisting on it while Feyre does whatever the hell she wants and makes his life harder. He has enough shit to deal with without Feyre disregarding everything he says whenever she feels like it.</p>
<p>              Nesta, however, doesn’t blink. She doesn’t break his gaze for even a second. She keeps her breathing even, her shoulders straight, her chin tilted up to stare him down as he gazes down at her. In a way, Rhys thinks, he’s actually impressed. Nesta has more balls than most humans, standing up to him like that and not backing down. Hell, she’s got more balls than most fae.</p>
<p>              “Then perhaps you should return your fee,” Nesta suggests, her voice biting. She can tell by the way that he reacts that it’s not an option, that it’s the real reason that Rhys is sticking this job out right now. It’s subtle, but Nesta can see the little twitch in his right eye, the way he catches his breath for a fraction of a second before forcing himself not to let it show. She can almost feel his anger at the situation simmering just beneath the surface of that self-control that he’s trying so hard to keep in place. “Otherwise, you have a job to do, even if that means babysitting.” Nesta’s lips tilt upward suddenly into a hint of a smirk. “Of course, it would’ve been easier for you if you’d managed to catch her first.”</p>
<p>              Rhys actually is growling now when he replies, that slight twitch in his right eye becoming a little more apparent. “What do you mean, <em>if you’d managed to catch her first</em>.”</p>
<p>              Rhys is distantly aware of the sound of a car starting in the street as Nesta waves a hand toward the wide window by the door, gesturing to the view outside as she still doesn’t break his gaze. Rhys hates to be the one to look away first, to let Nesta have this little win when she’s already keeping him on the job while what she really needs is to rein in her sister, but Rhys’ instincts are telling him that he needs to look. That something isn’t right.</p>
<p>              That the sound of that car starting is kind of familiar.</p>
<p>              He catches sight of Feyre in the front seat of his car as she adjusts the rearview mirror before slamming her foot down on the pedal. The car roars to life as she speeds out of view and Rhys starts charging toward the front door and out into the yard without thinking, his gaze following his car as Feyre drives off into the distance and Rhys is left standing there…trying to figure out what to do next and how to track her down, and all the things he’s going to do to her for stealing his car once he finally catches up to her.</p>
<p>              “Fuck.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm honestly not sure I'm super happy with how this part is developing, but I'm going to have fun with the bits that come next.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clubs aren’t really Feyre’s scene, but she’s come to the Court of Dreams often enough with her sister Elain, and Elain’s best friend, Claire, that she knows where it is without having to think about it and the guy at the entrance lets her past without question. She adjusts her skirt a little lower, which isn’t really possible if she’s honest about it. It’s short enough that it barely covers her as it is and there’s not really any material to spare. If she thinks too much about it, she’ll get self-conscious and wonder what the hell she’s doing here. She’ll rethink having stolen Rhys’ car and making an enemy of her bodyguard, who she’s really only met today. She’ll think that meeting her sister and her best friend at a club for a few drinks and some dancing is probably not the best idea that she’s ever had.</p>
<p>But if she doesn’t get out of the house, then she’s going to lose her mind and she’s not going to get any work done, and she’ll have to drop out of school and get a job doing something she hates—like working for Nesta. Besides, she’d never driven a fae car before and she has a point to make about this whole protection nonsense and her bodyguard.</p>
<p>And Feyre’s not going to lie that she got a little thrill out of stealing Rhys’ car right out from under him.</p>
<p>Maybe <em>that’s</em> what she should drop out of school and do—be a car thief.</p>
<p>Feyre scowls as she tugs at her skirt and listens to the heavy bass of the music, peering over the crowds of people to find her sister and Claire. Somehow, she thinks, she’s just not excited about a life of crime. She’ll just have to get back into the mindset to do her painting and finish her graduation project and her gallery showing. She just wishes she’d chosen a dress with a longer skirt. She tucks her loose brown hair behind her ears and resolves to enjoy herself.</p>
<p>“Feyre!” She can barely hear Elain’s voice over the crowd and the music, but it’s hard to miss her waving her hand to catch Feyre’s attention. Elain’s propped herself near the wall, Claire next to her as they both make a show of sipping their drinks delicately while some guys eye them in the background. Unlike Feyre, who at least enjoys the dancing part of going to a club, Elain and Claire mostly come to be seen. Feyre doesn’t understand it herself, isn’t really interested in being gawked at the way Elain and Claire seem to. But at least Elain tries to include her, Feyre thinks. Nesta mostly just keeps to herself and tries to get Elain and Feyre to “be responsible”. Whatever that means.</p>
<p>“You look amazing,” Feyre greets her sister. Elain really does—she’s wearing a pale blue dress that compliments her complexion and her soft brown curls. From the looks Elain is getting, Feyre thinks, a lot of the guys who’ve come to the club tonight think so, too.</p>
<p>“I’m surprised you managed to get past Nesta.” Elain is amused by the entire situation. Feyre knows that she doesn’t think Tamlin is anything to worry about, that she agrees with Feyre that Nesta is overreacting. But Elain and Nesta also don’t get along very well and haven’t for a long time, so anything that bothers Nesta tends to make Elain a little happier, even if it puts Feyre in the middle and has the unfortunate consequence of making her choose sides.</p>
<p>Even, Feyre thinks to herself, if she doesn’t mean to, like she is now.</p>
<p>“I’m surprised she managed to get the past the bodyguard,” Claire adds, edging in a little closer to Elain. “He must not be very good at his job.”</p>
<p>“I’m not surprised. I heard she was going to hire some fae company for the job.”</p>
<p>“Fae?” Claire’s eyes go wide and she looks between Feyre and Elain while Feyre is still scanning the crowd and waiting for a good song to start. “Why would Nesta hire a fae? <em>How</em> would Nesta hire a fae? Where would she meet them?”</p>
<p>“Probably at A.A.”</p>
<p>“<em>Elain.</em>” Feyre glares toward her sister. She may not be getting along with Nesta, but at least Nesta is doing well. It’s better, Feyre thinks, than when she was hiding liquor bottles from them and sneaking a drink to keep her hands from shaking during the day.</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean it,” Elain says slowly, feigning an apology. “But I am impressed that you’re here. And that you’re wearing that dress.”</p>
<p>Feyre looks between Claire and Elain, even more self-conscious than she was before. “Is this not a good dress?”</p>
<p>“It’s a great dress. It’s just that it’s nice to see you in something without paint splotches.”</p>
<p>“Or that smells like turpentine,” Claire adds.</p>
<p>“Or that—”</p>
<p>“I get it,” Feyre cuts in. “But it looks okay?”</p>
<p>Elain and Claire are about to say something reassuring—at least, Feyre hopes they are—when someone else beats them to it and asks Feyre to dance. Feyre looks to Elain and Claire, who seem to nudge her toward the dance floor, before leaving them to their drinks. At least Feyre can do the thing she actually came here to do, which is dance. She likes to get lost in the beat of the music, closing her eyes and letting the sound of it, and the feel of her partner beside her, move her body. Everything else starts to fade away the longer she goes on—her worries about her art, Nesta being overprotective, the ridiculously short length of her skirt.</p>
<p>There’s only her and this moment, the beat of that music a forgettable soundtrack to her temporary escape.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She doesn’t realize that she has an audience or that Rhysand Night has managed to track her down and is watching her dance, not too far where Elain and Claire are holding court. He’s managing to stay hidden well enough in the dim lighting of the club, content to let Feyre dance and have a little fun before swooping in and playing the bad guy. He would have to be strict this time about her cooperating.</p>
<p>Rhys struggles to push back the satisfying thought that maybe he <em>could</em> just lock her in her room for the duration of the job. Or the trunk of his car. Either option would work for him.</p>
<p>At least she’s having a good time during her last night out. In fact, Rhys thinks, she almost looks like fae out there on the dance floor as she gets caught up in the music. It becomes more mesmerizing the longer he stands there, watching her—her hair falling out of place, beads of sweat from the movement collecting along her hairline and the exposed curves of her dress, the way her skirt lifts and moves with her. If she wanted attention when she chose that dress, she’s certainly gotten it. It’s hard to ignore the long length of her legs as she lifts her arms overhead or the hint of curves at the top of her thighs where just the tiniest bit of lace shows from the hemline of her panties.</p>
<p>Rhys’ sharp fae vision zeroes in on the detail and he can’t stop the smirk on his lips as he watches. If nothing else, it’s a good show. But the sight of Feyre enjoying herself, of anyone getting so caught up in something outside of themselves, is hard to ignore. That little something about Feyre that Rhys can’t deny seems to grow stronger just by watching her…that little something that seems to draw him in.</p>
<p>When, Rhys wonders idly, his gaze focused on the young human as she moves along to the music and the male who led her to the club floor, was the last time Rhys had felt such freedom?</p>
<p>When was the last time he’d felt that freedom with another?</p>
<p>He can’t remember.</p>
<p>The realization of it feels sharp.</p>
<p>And then there’s something else—another pull in the club. That feeling of something just outside of his vision, his fae instincts tingling and pricking as he reluctantly pulls his gaze from Feyre to track it down. He scans the crowd, eyes singling every single human out and trying to commit them to memory as his gaze moves around the club. If he were stronger, it would be easier to pick them out among the dim lighting, but instead he can only make out their forms in the shadows. For a few seconds, he almost believes that he’s being paranoid, that maybe his senses are in overdrive and he’s wrong. It’s a safe human club. People are dancing. The music is loud and the people are crowded in, but there’s nothing to worry about—nothing he can’t handle.</p>
<p>Then his gaze turns back to Feyre as she turns to speak to someone. A tall redhead, Rhys mentally catalogs, with a scar over one eye. And that tingling, pricking sensation gets a little stronger.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Feyre.”</p>
<p>The voice is smooth and inviting as it calls out to her and Feyre recognizes it the instant she hears it. She’s never minded hearing that voice, even when she’s purposely avoided answering the phone so she doesn’t have to talk to it. She’s still waited for it to stop ringing and replayed her messages over and over a few times just to hear that voice.</p>
<p>She turns and smiles brightly at the familiar redhead. “Lucien, what are you doing here?” She doesn’t try to pull away when Lucien seems to move in and draw her into a hug, almost sighing contentedly at the warmth of his arms around her and his strong chest against her. Lucien, she’s always thought, seems like someone whose arms she could just burrow into and never leave. He’s a lot like Tamlin in that way. “I thought you and Tamlin were still at Rosehall for work.”</p>
<p>Lucien’s dark green eyes almost look golden in this light as he gazes down at her, his eyes crinkling a little as he smiles. “We are,” he says easily, then leans in conspiratorially. “I <em>might</em> have slipped away early and left Tamlin with all the paperwork.”</p>
<p>Feyre gives him a wide grin, a little thrill at Lucien’s confession running through her. She likes the image of Tamlin stuck back at Rosehall, glaring down at a desk full of papers and growling as Lucien slips out the back door. It’s strangely satisfying after the way she and Tamlin parted to think he’s stuck at work and she gets to be here, playing with Lucien. “Lucien Vanserra, how naughty of you.”</p>
<p>He gives her a predatory grin that reminds Feyre of a fox in a hen house and that little thrill she feels turns into a rush of excitement. “Well, you know I can’t stay away from <em>the city</em> for long,” Lucien says, his voice low and suggestive. Feyre likes the sound of it, the way she would almost swear that it sings to her.</p>
<p>“Really?” She works up the courage to take a small step closer to him, closing the distance between them on the dance floor. She’s suddenly aware of how she’s stopped moving while the music still pulses around her, the way the heat of the club seems to have settled between them. She would really like to dance with Lucien Vanserra, she thinks absently. She bets he knows <em>exactly</em> the right way to move with a partner. “What’s so great about Hewn City?”</p>
<p>Feyre is vaguely aware that there’s something strange about this scene, about being out on the dance floor with Lucien Vanserra and wanting, no, <em>wishing</em> to be devoured by that predatory grin and the way he leans over her as if he’s trying to claim all the space and even the air she’s breathing. She’s vaguely aware of something dangerous about the way Lucien’s presence seems to demand her attention. But if she’s consciously aware of it, it still doesn’t matter—the danger isn’t only exciting, it’s inviting her in, and Feyre Archeron wants as much of it as he’ll give her.</p>
<p>“The company,” Lucien replies smoothly, Feyre’s gaze drawn to his lips. “Of course.”</p>
<p>Feyre swallows, her throat feeling dry as she drags her gaze to meet his. “They don’t have girls in Rosehall?” She forces herself to smile faintly, feeling her heart skip a beat at his proximity. “Pretty ones, who are cultured and intelligent and who know exactly what to say and do and wear at all hours of the day?”</p>
<p>Lucien’s voice, his gaze, never falters as he stares down at Feyre. “Not like you.”</p>
<p>But whatever spell Lucien seems to have over her fades enough that the faint smile pulls downward into something like a frown and his proximity starts to feel more like encroaching on her personal space rather than dangerous fun. “Tamlin didn’t think so.”</p>
<p>“Tamlin,” Lucien says, his face growing a little more serious as he reaches out for Feyre and moves a hand around her waist, closing the distance between them as he starts to move a little to the next song as it starts to play, “isn’t here right now.”</p>
<p>Feyre doesn’t realize that she’s started to dance with him, even though their movements, their pace, don’t match the music at all. She can hear the sound of something up-tempo, feel the way it seems to vibrate through her bones, but Lucien is pulling her into a slow dance, their bodies swaying little by little toward the edge of the dance floor. All Feyre is aware of is that it feels nice to be in Lucien’s arms. It feels nice to be moving again. The little swaying motion that they’re following is soothing, even against the backdrop of the pounding bass. She doesn’t mind this at all, she thinks numbly. “I missed you when you left.”</p>
<p>That serious face starts to turn predatory, the shift so subtle that Feyre doesn’t register it. “Did you? I missed you, too.”</p>
<p>The words escape Feyre is a slow breath that she doesn’t give her body permission to let out. “I missed Tamlin, too.”</p>
<p>Lucien’s arms around her tighten to the point where Feyre can feel her ribs constricting and taking a deep breath is difficult, but she doesn’t mind. She likes the sturdiness of his body against hers, the way she can press into it and hold onto him. She doesn’t need breath when she’s in arms like that. He leans down so that his face is mere inches from hers, his breath hot against her face as he speaks. “Shall I tell you a secret, Feyre Archeron?”</p>
<p>Feyre almost isn’t even listening to what he’s saying anymore. She’s just focusing on the sound of his voice as they move together, edging their way closer and closer toward the back of the club. “Hm?”</p>
<p>If Lucien is a fox in the house hen house, then Feyre will gladly let him eat her alive.</p>
<p>“Tamlin missed you, too.”</p>
<p>The words barely register with her. “Hm.”</p>
<p>“That’s why I’m here,” Lucien continues, his lips drifting closer to hers before trailing toward her ear. His mouth settles there, teasing at her skin gently before he whispers to her. “Tamlin sent me to bring you back.”</p>
<p>Feyre doesn’t really understand what Lucien’s saying, but the words are nice, she thinks. So very nice as they whisper to her. She wants to melt into them, all the tension in her body releasing as she leans into Lucien’s grip and lets out as long and slow a breath as she can. “Mmmmm…” She could fall asleep here.</p>
<p>Lucien’s hand at her waist moves smoothly down her back, generously taking in the curve of her backside before finding its place at her thigh and lifting her up to carry her. Feyre merely hums as she leans into him, closing her eyes and burying her face against his chest when his grip around her tightens to hold her in place. He turns so swiftly and begins pacing toward the back door of the club that it would be difficult for anyone there to notice if they weren’t watching very, <em>very</em> carefully.</p>
<p>And Elain hasn’t taken her eyes off the tall redhead since he walked in and made a beeline for her sister. “What are you doing?”</p>
<p>Elain’s presence behind Lucien catches him off guard as his grip around Feyre tightens. Elain can see impressions of Lucian’s hands start to form on Feyre’s bare legs, the fair skin reddening under his touch. Lucien’s green-gold eyes meet Elain’s as they gaze at each other for a long moment and Elain thinks that she can feel…something…something unusual there. Something pulling her in. She doesn’t want to look away. She doesn’t want him to look away.</p>
<p>“She’s had a little too much to drink,” Lucien says, a hint of exasperation in his voice. She looks familiar to him, he thinks, but he can’t place her. Not that it matters. What matters is that he gets Feyre out the door and into the car.</p>
<p>Elain surprises him, though. She doesn’t seem to listen the same way that Feyre does, or maybe it just takes longer. She’s going to cause trouble. “My sister hasn’t had <em>anything</em> to drink,” Elain insists. “And I think you should put her down.”</p>
<p>Lucien can’t decide between being intrigued and being frustrated with the woman standing in front of him. Of course she’s Feyre’s sister. He should’ve seen the resemblance sooner. They could be twins. All the Archeron sisters, he remembers, are unmistakably similar. Even if he does think that this one is prettier than Feyre. But <em>she’s</em> not why he’s here. “Perhaps she had a drink you didn’t see.”</p>
<p>“No,” a voice cuts in. Neither Lucien or Elain recognize it, or the owner, as he comes to join the conversation, but some small part of Elain is relieved. And irritated. She doesn’t understand why. Something is happening, though. Something…strange. “She’s right—Feyre hasn’t had anything to drink tonight.” The stranger grins at Lucien in a wide, dangerous expression, and reaches up to tap at the sharp points on his ears. “I would be able to smell it, and there’s nothing on Feyre but her lilac and pear shampoo.”</p>
<p>Elain’s eyes leave Lucien for only a few seconds to take in the newcomer. “You’re fae…” Her eyes narrow at him. “You’re the bodyguard?” She dismisses him almost as quickly as he appeared, returning her attention to her sister and the person holding her—the one with the nice voice.</p>
<p>“Bodyguard?” Lucien questions, looking between Elain and the fae. He looks familiar to Lucien, but then most of the fae look alike to him these days. He doesn’t bother to pay much attention to the details of their faces or who they are, really. He doesn’t need to.</p>
<p>Usually.</p>
<p>“Rhysand Night.” Rhys’ smile takes on an edge of contempt as he stares at him. Yes, Rhys thinks, there’s definitely something there. He can feel it so much more strongly now that he’s this close, his instincts practically screaming in his ears. <em>Magic</em>. “And I believe you have my charge in your arms.”</p>
<p>Feyre takes long, slow, silent breaths, unaware of what’s happening as Lucien’s grip becomes impossibly tight. She makes a small noise at the way his fingers dig into her thighs, still almost hypnotically leaning into him.</p>
<p>“I was just going to help her get home.” Lucien doesn’t want to let go. He’s close—so close. The door is right there. If only this <em>Rhys</em> hadn’t shown up.</p>
<p><em>Rhysand Night</em>. How does he know that name?</p>
<p>Rhys refuses to back down—not when this case just got very, <em>very</em> interesting. Whoever this Lucien is, Rhys can feel the magic on him, the uncorrupted power. He can’t let Lucien leave with Feyre. “I believe that’s my job.” Rhys takes a challenging step toward Lucien, holding out his arms as if waiting for Lucien to hand Feyre over. He can feel Elain standing beside him, half fighting the magic out of concern for her sister and half giving in to Lucien. She might be strong enough to break through the magic, but she won’t be able to stop Feyre from being taken.</p>
<p>Lucien’s teeth grind against each other and he has to hold back a growl. He has one job in this place and he’s almost completed it—he just has to <em>get Feyre out</em>. But he can’t make a scene of it. Not like this. He could kill this Rhysand Night for interfering. He lets out a long breath to try and maintain his control over himself and forces out a low chuckle. “Of course,” he manages, taking a reluctant step forward and slowly releasing Feyre into Rhys’ waiting arms, bruises already starting to form from where Lucien was holding onto her. Rhys takes her carefully, never breaking his gaze on Lucien as he gently pulls her close, trying not to notice the way she curls into him like she had with Lucien and the way her smaller body just seems to fit there perfectly as she quietly hums in satisfaction against his chest. Lucien watches her, his eyebrows pulling up at the way she settles into him and how Rhys unconsciously seems to respond. <em>Interesting</em>. “I’ll leave her in your care, <em>Bodyguard</em>.”</p>
<p>The word sounds like an accusation, but Rhys is used to that. “A wise choice.”</p>
<p>The look Lucien gives Rhys is full of venom and anger, thinly hidden behind an expression of friendship. “Take good care of Feyre.” He glances at Elain curiously, his gaze lingering there for a few seconds before he leaves—just as Elain seems like she might be about to say something.</p>
<p>The second he’s gone, Elain blinks and looks around the club, surprised, almost if she’s just waking up from a dream. Her mouth feels dry, her lips chapped. She looks toward the door Lucien left from. “What <em>was</em> that?”</p>
<p>Rhys easily maneuvers Feyre in his arms, tugging her skirt down as much as he can so that it doesn’t ride up while he carries her and give everyone a show of her panties. He holds her carefully, fingers curling around her gently, surprised at the care he’s using and the warmth he feels when she nuzzles his neck in her almost sleep. Like some part of him that’s been sleeping is starting to wake up.</p>
<p>He glances toward the back door of the club and silently answers Elain’s question. That, Rhys thinks, was magic. Which means that there’s more to this job than Feyre and Nesta let on.</p>
<p>Maybe even more than they know at all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*dun dun DUN*</p>
<p>Excuse me while I have way more fun with this than I should, but I'm having so much fun.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, a few things--this WASN'T supposed to happen yet in the story, not according to my original outline, but it sort of just developed that way and it's working with the next few chapters that I already have written, so I'm just going to go with it.</p><p>BUT...it's going to get a little real in the next few chapters as Rhys' backstory starts to work more into this, so I'll probably end up updating my tags soon to reflect that because, well, unfortunately Rhys' being raped is still part of his backstory and it's only fair to give anyone reading warning that it's going to come up. Because I guess it's just a plot point that I can't NOT explore in every story I do? I don't know. But Rhys is going to need a hug (I volunteer as tribute?) and it's only fair to throw the warning out there for anyone reading--I'll make sure to clearly mark what to expect in the chapter summary or notes so, you know, people can skip stuff if they want. I'll selectively read and skip over crap in stories/novels all the time if I'm not into a scene, so if that's something that you do, then you know, that's cool.</p><p>Also, I did include a tag about how the rating may change and my mind is definitely going places here even though I know it's still early in the story. Because I have no self control. (at least I'm honest about it--that's sort of virtuous, right? just agree with me and let's move on) So, it's not definite but just...don't be surprised if that happens, I guess? (or DO let me know if you're here for the smutty potential, because hey, we could be here together and it's always nice to have fandom friends)</p><p>*nervously proceeds to post this chapter*</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s late when Rhys manages to get Feyre home—in the car he’s recovered after Feyre stole it—Elain following him quietly in the door. He doesn’t spare a glaring Nesta much of a glance as he walks right past her with Feyre in his arms, still in her dazed, mostly asleep state. Nesta was waiting for him to walk in with Feyre, anyway. It’s Elain who turns away from Nesta’s wrath, pointedly trying to edge around Rhys and Feyre before Nesta manages to catch her.</p><p>She doesn’t make it. Rhys <em>may</em> have deliberately stepped in her way to keep Elain from her escape up the stairs and give him more time to get Feyre away from the impending argument that starts before he even makes it up the first few steps.</p><p>“What the <em>hell</em> were you thinking? She’s supposed to be lying low.” Nesta’s sharp voice is laced with an anger that Rhys recognizes from himself whenever one of his own family—the only family he has left—does something stupid and dangerous.</p><p>“I was <em>trying</em> to give her a break from you.” Elain is angry and exasperated.</p><p>“She doesn’t need a break from me, she needs—”</p><p>“She doesn’t need to be hidden away in this godawful house all day.”</p><p>“She’s in danger.”</p><p>“You overreact to <em>everything</em>. You were so much more fun when you were <em>drunk</em>—”</p><p>Rhys is at the top of the stairs when the argument in the front room goes to deathly silent. He takes care not to loosen his grip on Feyre in the slightest, keeping her securely held to his chest, as he turns and glances back toward a stunned Nesta at the bottom of the stairs. It’s the most pained and vulnerable he’s seen the woman since he met her, hurt in a way that only someone you love can manage. He almost wants to go back down there and see her, check in on her, but he still has Feyre to take care of and besides, he thinks, this isn’t an argument for anyone to butt in on. Although he still files this little bit of information on Nesta away.</p><p>He paces toward Feyre’s room, to the same door he’d followed her from earlier that day, and manages to open the door and flip on the light without bothering Feyre at all. He’s surprised by how much he likes it as he carries inside, taking in the easels set up near the window and the stacks of finished paintings propped against the walls. Used and half used paint tubes and cups are spread out on a shelf, sketchbooks left lying open on whatever surface she can find to leave them there. Everything else about the room is neat, except that it’s exploding with finished and half-finished art and supplies.</p><p>He moves to gently lay her down on the bed, pulling the fluffy throw blanket over her and tucking her in. He’s surprised when Feyre sighs in her sleep, now fully out, and grabs onto one of his arms, pulling it against her as she curls up under the blanket. She looks so happy there, so peaceful, that Rhys almost doesn’t want to pull away. It feels nice to have her hold onto him that way. A part of thinks that he could start to like Feyre, if only she was asleep whenever he was around. He pries his arm loose from her grip as she whines and tugs at a throw pillow instead, cuddling against it as if she’s holding onto it for dear life.</p><p>She looks so young lying there like that, Rhys thinks. He can’t help but stand and watch for a few moments. He’s not sure that he’ll ever get used to it—this human life span. He’s been alive for five hundred years and he can’t find that balance whenever he deals with them—she looks so much like a child, but she’s not. If she was a fae, if she might live for an eternity, he could understand it better. She would still very much be a child, still so young by their standards. But this?</p><p>She could live for a hundred years at best. Humans mark the beginnings of their adulthood so quickly, it’s disconcerting, even if they don’t really have a choice. What must it be like to have to fit so much experience into such a small space of time?</p><p>He pulls away from the bed before he can dwell on Feyre, and her age, anymore. She’s a job, he reminds himself. A job that just got interesting.</p><p>He has questions now. A <em>lot</em> of questions. He turns away from Feyre and returns his attention to her room. He didn’t have the chance to look in here earlier and, he thinks, he might not have such easy access again, so he might as well take advantage of it to see if there’s anything useful here. Perhaps something about Tamlin or Lucien. Photos, phone numbers, addresses. Anything. He moves to the dresser, shifting through the stacks of open and closed sketchbooks. There are loose papers from her school, notices from the bookstore, supply lists. Notes from friends. He flips through a couple of her sketchbooks, noting with some amusement that her previous attempts at nude sketches in class haven’t been any better than the one earlier that day. The models may be different, but the anatomy is crude. She’s much better at her still lifes and the cityscapes, and—</p><p>Rhys pauses on a drawing, barely sketched in any more than the initial lines, his violet eyes moving over the familiar angles of the scene. It’s a café at night, tables and seats lined on a cobblestone walkway that borders a stream. It’s a scene as familiar to Rhys as anything else from his childhood—a place once visited and beloved by he and his mother and sister as they walked down that cobblestone street, taking in the lights and the sounds of Velaris. It has to be a mistake, he thinks as his stomach twists, but it’s unmistakable. He glances toward Feyre’s sleeping form, so innocent and childlike as she clutches her pillow, and gazes back down at the sketchbook. He turns the page to find another sketch just like it, and another, and another. Half-finished. Barely started. Fully charcoaled and developed.</p><p>Each sketch a different scene, a different memory from Velaris. His home. His beautiful, beloved home where his family is laid to rest.</p><p>He moves on to the next sketchbook, and another. He ignores the drawings that don’t mean anything to him, searching only for the ones that he wants to find. By the time he finishes the fourth book, frantically skipping through page after page, he thinks that he must be going mad. But they’re there, hidden in between flowerpots and landscapes and portraits of her sisters and father.</p><p>And other portraits, too. Faces and eyes and mouths that draw the air from his lungs as he finds himself looking at faces he never would thought he would see again. Faces he’d hoped, <em>worked</em> <em>desperately,</em> to forget. He doesn’t even notice when he drops the last book he looked through and scrambles toward the paintings, pulling them in the light to look at them.</p><p>The café at night.</p><p>The string of art galleries.</p><p>His mother’s face.</p><p>The redhead from tonight.</p><p>A blond, his hair almost golden, his green eyes hard as they stare back at Rhys with a mirrored ferocity. Rhys never knew his name, but he knows that face.</p><p>He’s going to throw up—Rhys can feel the bile rising in his throat as he stares at the face of the only person, the only <em>fae</em>, who has ever managed to make him feel fear.</p><p>True, unending fear.</p><p><em>Amarantha</em>.</p><p>The painting falls back with a heavy <em>thud</em> that makes Rhys’ heart jump in his chest as his legs give out and he stares at that painting—that <em>perfect </em>likeness. He falls to the floor, feeling sick, unable to look away.</p><p>“At least, she’s in bed now.” Nesta’s voice is distant, somewhere far away from Rhys is. Or maybe she’s there, but he just isn’t registering it. Maybe he’s the one who’s far away? He isn’t sure. He can’t be sure. He can’t look away from Amarantha. He can’t take his eyes off her.</p><p>If he looks away, he thinks, that’s when she’ll strike.</p><p>“Night?” Nesta scowls as she gazes at the fae, not in the mood to deal with any more shit after this long, <em>long</em> day. “Rhysand?”</p><p>“How long,” Rhys manages to say, his eyes still focused in the same place, “has she been painting these?”</p><p>Nesta’s scowl disappears as she frowns at Rhys, surprised at the question. She looks between Rhys and the paintings, notices the way he’s sitting there, the look of sheer <em>devastation</em> on his face, in the way he’s holding himself, and swallows nervously. “I don’t know. A year, maybe? She doesn’t show us most of her work, especially what she’s saving for the show.” Her gaze darts back and forth between Rhys and where he’s looking, a feeling of fear starting to grip her chest. “Why?”</p><p>“Since she met Tamlin?” His voice is raspy and drawn out, as if he can barely breathe. He still doesn’t look away.</p><p>“No,” Nesta says quickly, feeling that fear get greater the longer that Rhys won’t look at her. “Before that. A lot before that.” That was why Feyre went out with him, Nesta remembered her saying—Feyre recognized him from one of her paintings. She couldn’t believe it. She thought she’d just imagined him up. It was just like a fairytale, Feyre said. “Why? What’s wrong?” When Rhys doesn’t answer her quickly enough, Nesta finally loses patience and crosses the room, reaching out for him and turning him to face her.</p><p>He looks like he’s seen a ghost. “What’s going on?”</p><p>Rhys struggles to find the words to reply, to make those words come out. “I don’t know,” he admits, hating the sound of it. “But I think you’re right.” He looks from one sister to the other. “I think she’s in danger, and she has no idea how much.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hints at past domestic abuse for Nesta :( nothing graphic, but fair warning that there are brief mentions of it.</p>
<p>Also, these two chapters about with Lucien were totally unplanned because what kind of person follows story outlines, anyway???</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s either too early in the day to be this tired, Elain thinks, or she should’ve grabbed that cup of coffee before leaving for work even though it meant she had to face Nesta.</p>
<p>Or, she mentally adds, glaring at the pouring rain outside the store windows, it’s just going to be one of those days. As someone who owns a nursery and landscaping business, she supposes she shouldn’t dislike the rain so much—it is, after all, necessary for the environment, and as long as it isn’t too heavy on the plants, it’s natural maintenance that she doesn’t need to see to. And Elain has worked too hard to let this business fail, especially so early after it opened. She’s been saving every penny for years to make this dream come true.</p>
<p>She even moved back in with Nesta and Feyre after her engagement with Graysen broke up to help keep her personal bills down, and she certainly didn’t do <em>that</em> lightly.</p>
<p>Elain scowls at the rain before returning her attention to the computer in front of her and the orders she’s meant to fill for a few businesses downtown. She doesn’t want to think about Nesta this morning, even if their last argument keeps somehow working its way back to the front of her mind.</p>
<p>
  <em>You overreact to <strong>everything</strong>. You were so much more fun when you were <strong>drunk</strong>—</em>
</p>
<p>She didn’t mean it, of course, and the thought that she’d even said it to her sister at all makes Elain feel even more on edge. She hates fighting with either of her sisters, hates if they’re not getting along for any reason. And Nesta, Elain thinks, has been through so much. She really doesn’t deserve it.</p>
<p>Nesta had looked at her like she’d just slapped her across the face—like Elain had just done to Nesta what they all knew Tomas used to do her day in and day out when they were married. But back then, Elain thinks, quietly typing on the keyboard without really paying attention to what she’s doing, they had all been silently haunted by it, waiting for Nesta to confide in them or to ask them to intervene or <em>anything</em>—Elain would have taken <em>anything</em> from Nesta, any recognition.</p>
<p>But even after being sent to the hospital, even after Tomas had been arrested and all the horrible things he’d put her through came to light, even after she’d finally sold their house and moved back into the family home and taken over their father’s business instead of pursuing her own dreams, Nesta still wouldn’t talk.</p>
<p>She wouldn’t acknowledge any of it. Not to Elain or Feyre. Elain’s not even sure that Nesta has ever confided in anyone else.</p>
<p>Nesta just always keeps to herself, so private that Elain can never decide if it’s just Nesta’s nature or if she’s actively trying to hurt them by not allowing them into her life.</p>
<p>And it does, Elain thinks as she swallows back against a frog in her throat. It hurts Elain that Nesta doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to be her sister, not really. It doesn’t matter how Elain lashes out, <em>anything</em> to get a reaction, just <em>something</em> from Nesta to prove that they’re family and they’re in this together…it doesn’t matter what she says or does, Nesta refuses to talk to her.</p>
<p>
  <em>You were so much more fun when you were <strong>drunk</strong>—</em>
</p>
<p>What kind of sister says something like that?</p>
<p>The bell hanging above the front door rings as someone steps into the small storefront, but Elain doesn’t look up from her computer right away. She has to buy herself time to take a few deep breaths and fight back the tears that are making her vision blurry before she can face whoever just stepped in. She hears them taking a few steps, walking around the inside of the store, where the few plants that she can’t store outside are housed, before they walk toward her desk.</p>
<p>“Excuse me?” It’s a voice so smooth and silky that Elain’s fingers pause on the keyboard just to listen to it. “Perhaps you could help me, I’m looking for some plants for my office.”</p>
<p>But as Elain looks up at the face that belongs to that voice, she has a pretty good sense that he’s probably not here for plants. Or if he is, she thinks, if he is…the thought trails off abruptly. She’s certain that there’s more to it, that there’s a possibility there of…she can’t quite think of it. Like a word that sits on the tip of her tongue but that she can’t quite think of when she wants to say it.</p>
<p>Dammit, Elain thinks, those make her crazy.</p>
<p>“It’s you,” is about all Elain can make out, and it takes a surprising amount of effort to force the words into focus as she stares up at a pair of familiar golden eyes. She’d thought that they were green last night and had just appeared golden in the club lighting, but she can see clearly enough now that she was wrong—they’re golden, soft and inviting and hard to look away from as their owner smiles down at her.</p>
<p>There’s something about that smile that’s either enticing or unsettling, Elain thinks, she can’t figure out which. But either way, she finds that the details of his face are hard to look away from. That maybe…maybe she doesn’t want to look away.</p>
<p>“Me?” He appears confused—<em>appears</em>, Elain thinks. He isn’t really confused. He’s….he’s…why is it so hard to think? “Have we met?”</p>
<p>Elain pinches her lips as she looks at him, <em>really</em> looks at him. She can see it. She knows there’s something there. She knows there’s something off. She just can’t make out what. What is it? “From the club,” Elain says slowly. She’s sure it’s him. She’s sure she’s seen him. She’s sure…</p>
<p>Comprehension dawns on that perfect face, framed by red hair that’s pulled back into a ponytail. He nods a little and that smile grows—is he smirking? Elain can’t tell for certain. “You were there with Feyre, weren’t you?”</p>
<p>Elain has to work to keep her focus, to keep the memory of the previous night in mind as clearly as she can when she looks at him. “I’m her sister.” Feyre was talking to him. They were dancing. Elain ran over.</p>
<p>Why did Elain run over?</p>
<p>“Really? I’m Lucien,” he introduces himself, smiling that disarming smile. Is it disarming? Elain supposes it is. It’s something else, too—something…sinister? No, she must be imagining things. “I’m a friend of hers. I’ve been wanting to meet her sisters. She speaks so highly on them. You must all be so close.”</p>
<p>“We are,” Elain answers slowly, though the words taste bitter as she says them. “But I don’t think she’s mentioned you.”</p>
<p>Lucien gives her a sheepish sort of look and runs a hand through his deep red hair. “That’s my fault, I’m afraid. We had a bit of a falling out not too long ago.”</p>
<p>Elain feels something insistent tugging at her, pulling through the haze a little. “About what?”</p>
<p>Lucien seems surprised that she asks, turning from sheepish to…Elain can’t make it out. Why can’t Elain make it out? “It was about her art,” Lucien says easily, watching Elain frown, his gaze hovering on her lips. “I offered her a space at my gallery for when she graduates and she told me that she doesn’t want to have to take favors from friends and would rather make it on her talent. I didn’t mean to offend her, you see—I was just worried. It’s so hard to make a living as an artist, and I would hate to see Feyre have to give up her dream because she’s struggling. She’s so talented.”</p>
<p>Elain watches Lucien, tries to find something in the explanation that seems off, something that seems not right. She keeps thinking that something about Lucien just doesn’t quite fit, but she can’t put her finger on it. But that...well, that does seem reasonable, Elain thinks. And that does sound like Feyre, doesn’t it? And Lucien is right about Feyre’s art—she <em>is</em> talented and she shouldn’t have to give up on her dreams.</p>
<p><em>Nesta</em> has given her dreams enough for the both of them and even if <em>she</em> won’t say it, Elain can tell that it’s making her miserable. </p>
<p>Maybe Lucien’s really not so bad. After all, he seems to really care about Feyre.</p>
<p>Right?</p>
<p>Elain’s head feels a little fuzzy.</p>
<p>“Elain?”</p>
<p>Elain’s gaze snaps into focus on Lucien again. “What?”</p>
<p>“Is Feyre okay?” Lucien gives her a concerned look, leaning in against the countertop between them as he holds her gaze.</p>
<p>“Is she okay?” Elain repeats the question. She’s not sure why she doesn’t understand it the first time.</p>
<p>Lucien nods, that concerned look still holding Elain’s gaze. She feels warm, she thinks. Too warm for this office. Why is it so warm in here? “Only, I heard her mention something about a bodyguard last night and I was worried about her. Does she have a bodyguard?”</p>
<p>Elain wishes she could look away from Lucien to find somewhere to sit. She feels tired and warm, and it’s hard to concentrate on standing at the counter and talking to Lucien at the same time. “Hmmm…Nesta hired someone to keep an eye on her.”</p>
<p>Lucien’s eyes open a little wider in interest as he leans in a little closer to her. “Really? Why would she do that?”</p>
<p>Elain smacks her lips. Her mouth feels dry as she tries to speak and some part of her is thinking that maybe she shouldn’t—maybe she needs to end the conversation and take a break from her work. <em>Get away from Lucien</em>.</p>
<p>“Elain?”</p>
<p>“Um…I think…” <em>Stop</em>. “It was something to do with Tamlin.” <em>No.</em></p>
<p>“What to do with Tamlin?”</p>
<p><em>Don’t</em>. “He was…following her…or he….wouldn’t leave her alone and…” Elain is starting to dizzy, but she doesn’t notice when she starts to grip the countertop for support, clenching her fingers so tightly that her nails are starting to hurt and her knuckles are going pale. “Nesta found this fae…”</p>
<p>“Rhysand Night,” Lucien supplies softly, trying to prompt Elain in the direction he wants.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“The bodyguard, Rhysand Night.”</p>
<p>“Oh…is that his name?” Elain needs to sit down. Why doesn’t she just sit down? <em>Look away</em>.</p>
<p>“Tell me about Rhysand Night, Elain.” Lucien’s voice is becoming more insistent, gaining a bit of an edge that Elain doesn’t like.</p>
<p>“Rhysand…”</p>
<p>“<em>Rhysand Night</em>, Elain.”</p>
<p>“I don’t…” <em>Look away. Look away</em>. “I don’t know anything about…”</p>
<p>Elain is seconds from losing her balance when the bell over the front door rings again as someone else walks in. She doesn’t notice how she’s been taking smaller and smaller breaths, holding them in as she gazes at Lucien, until she finally takes her first full breath since the conversation started. She practically falls back onto the stool nearby in exhaustion as Claire comes floating into the store, almost dancing in excitement as she starts talking to Elain.</p>
<p>But Elain doesn’t really respond—she just watches as Lucien quickly walks away and disappears through the front door silently, as if he’d never really been there at all.</p>
<p>Which he might as well have been, since Claire didn’t notice him and doesn’t understand why Elain seems so out of it. “Elain? Are you okay?” Claire bends down to eye level with Elain and waves a hand in front of her face, trying to get her attention. “You look sick. Did something happen? I can cover for you if you need to go home.”</p>
<p>“I—” Elain watches the door for long moments after Lucien is gone, trying to sort out what just happened and why she feels so strange. “I was just…” She swallows and finally looks to Claire, who’s moved into view so that Elain has to look at her. “What were you saying?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's honestly just really getting caught up in your own story, even though it's totally ridiculous. I'm having such a good time here.</p>
<p>Also, some evil Tamlin for you. I had a hard time resisting giving him a white cat to pet like Blofeld.</p>
<p>But I make no promises about that in future chapters.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lucien could kill the human female for interrupting.</p>
<p>It was frustrating enough trying to get any information from Elain as it was. His power doesn’t work that well when he has to use so much of it so quickly and Feyre’s sister was so resistant…he doesn’t understand it. He goes over the incident from the club and the nursery over and over in his mind the entire drive back to the estate where he and Tamlin are staying, trying to discern what it is about Elain that makes her so troublesome. Usually, he thinks, it doesn’t take much to sway humans to do what he wants, especially if they’ve had a bit to drink. Elain should have been easy to manage at the club. She should’ve bent to his will within only a few seconds.</p>
<p>He could’ve gotten away with Feyre then if only the fae bodyguard hadn’t shown up and made everything so complicated. He has Elain to thank for that.</p>
<p>He’ll have to repay her for her trouble after Tamlin has finally dealt with Feyre—and perhaps he’ll take care of this Claire, too, while he’s at it.</p>
<p>It doesn’t take Lucien long to make his way to the estate where Tamlin is living among the humans. It’s hardly up to Lucien’s standards, and certainly not up to Tamlin’s, but it serves its purpose for the time being. And besides, Cauldron willing, it’s only a temporary home for either of them.</p>
<p>Still, it could be worse. Lucien doesn’t know how these humans can stand living in such proximity to each other, let alone in these large, sprawling cities with so little nature to escape to. It comes from his Spring side, of course, but in his time with Tamlin, he’s come to accept the need for a certain amount of countryside—and privacy, away from the human trash that lives on this side of the wall.</p>
<p>Tamlin will take care of that soon enough.</p>
<p>It doesn’t take long to park the car and find his way inside the great house, to the office where the newly returned Tamlin has made himself comfortable in front of the desk. Tamlin is lounging casually in his leather chair as he watches Alis lay out a plate of food in front of him, taking care not to acknowledge Lucien or begin discussing anything until Alis has quietly exited the room, giving Lucien only a glance from the corner of her eye as she leaves.</p>
<p>Alis, Lucien knows, is not any happier to be here than he is. They’ll all be relieved when the humans are dealt with, even if Alis doesn’t approve of Tamlin and Lucien’s more…aggressive methods of achieving that.</p>
<p>Neither Lucien or Tamlin speak until Alis has closed the door and a respectable time has passed for her to not be close enough to eavesdrop. Tamlin is picking at the food on the plate when Lucien finally speaks. “You’re back earlier than expected.”</p>
<p>Tamlin eyes Lucien over his meal, those green eyes as bright as his golden hair. In the sanctuary of his home, temporary though it may be, Tamlin is relaxing the glamour that keeps him disguised as a human. It’s a necessary evil every now and then, after all, to relax the magic and embrace themselves as fae. Otherwise, all these plans are for nothing and they may as well just <em>give</em> the earth over to the humans.</p>
<p>“Earlier than you expected, it seems,” Tamlin responds between bites, leaning back in his chair and regarding his second. “I notice that my order to retrieve Feyre has not yet been fulfilled.”</p>
<p>If Lucien were a younger or weaker fae, then perhaps he would have been intimidated. He might have flinched or hedged or averted his gaze from his High Lord as Tamlin stared him down. But Lucien is none of those things and he never bows or averts his gaze for anyone. “I came close,” Lucien admits, and Tamlin’s eyebrows raise.</p>
<p>“But?”</p>
<p>“But there was a complication,” Lucien finishes. Tamlin doesn’t look terribly impressed by this statement as he waits for Lucien to elaborate. “Apparently, her sisters were concerned for her after the two of you…” It takes all of Lucien’s strength not to taunt Tamlin with the phrase <em>broke up</em>. “…parted ways.” Tamlin snorts from his seat, half amused by Lucien’s words and half disgusted by them.</p>
<p>“And?”</p>
<p>“And they hired a bodyguard. A <em>fae</em> bodyguard.”</p>
<p>Now Tamlin is curious. It’s not often that one sees fae on the other side of the wall, even now, with the call for better relations between the humans and the fae. Not that it makes any difference, Tamlin thinks. There’s still plenty of hatred and prejudice between the two groups that he doubts there’ll ever be peace and cooperation between them.</p>
<p>Which is how he prefers it.</p>
<p>“And this bodyguard somehow kept you from doing the task I assigned to you?” Tamlin’s voice has a dangerous edge as he speaks. “He’s either very powerful or I overestimated your abilities, Lucien. Which is it?”</p>
<p>Sometimes, Lucien thinks, he wouldn’t mind taking a swing at Tamlin. “You told me to retrieve Feyre <em>discreetly</em> so we didn’t alert the human authorities unnecessarily. Short of breaking into her house and stealing her away, I took the first opportunity that was available and was interrupted by this—” Lucien pauses, recognizing how he’s holding back his interactions with Elain. He’d prefer to deal with her himself rather than let Tamlin come up with his own plans. Tamlin, he thinks, would use Elain as bait or make her an example. Lucien would prefer to have a little fun with her before he finally kills her. “<em>Rhysand Night</em>.” He spits the name out like it tastes rotten in his tongue, hating that this lowly fae prevented him from doing his job.</p>
<p>But Tamlin freezes as he goes to take another bite of his dinner, green eyes flashing to Lucien with a look of recognition that makes Lucien falter for just a moment. “What name did you say?”</p>
<p>“Rhysand Night.” Lucien gazes at Tamlin, watching the slow, evil sort of smile that starts to spread across his face. He drops the meat he was eating on his plate, wiping at his fingers with the cloth napkin Alis left, and lets out a long, low chuckle.</p>
<p>“Really? I didn’t know he was still alive.” Tamlin looks around the room as he’s seeing it anew, everything a little brighter and sunnier and more entertaining than it had been before.</p>
<p>“You know him?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I know him,” Tamlin says, letting the knowledge of Rhys’ presence sink in with a delicious kind of malice as he remembers the last time he saw the fae in question. “I killed his mother and sister in front of him, for Amarantha.” It had, to Tamlin’s mind, been an altogether enjoyable experience. He’d taken his time. He’d made quite a mess. He can still hear the sounds of their screams singing him to sleep at night. “He was supposed to die in that last night under the mountain, but apparently he was more resourceful than I thought.”</p>
<p>Lucien watches as Tamlin gets that look—the one that means he’s planning something new. Truth be told, Lucien is exhausted by how often their plans have changed, how <em>long</em> this endeavor is taking. If they’re going to kill and enslave the humans, Lucien would almost prefer they just take a direct approach and get it over with.</p>
<p>But he’s already put in too much time with this to let it go to waste. No, he reminds himself, it has to be done right. The humans will do most of the work for them and it will save fae lives.</p>
<p>“You seem pleased.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I am.” Tamlin laughs against his good fortune. Surely, this is a sign—proof that their plans are the right course of action. “If Rhysand is still alive, that means that he can still give us Velaris, and even if he doesn’t…Feyre will.”</p>
<p>“So, now you want them both?” Lucien takes care to hide the disapproval in his tone. He agreed to this plan because he wants to save his home. He doesn’t care how many human lives he has to end in the process or <em>how</em> he ends them.</p>
<p>He doesn’t particularly like the idea of harming fae, however. Not his own people. At least he and Alis both agree on that.</p>
<p>“Bring both of them back here. I don’t care how you decide to do it as long as you don’t draw attention to us.”</p>
<p>“You would prefer that it still remain…discrete?”</p>
<p>Tamlin can hardly contain himself. “For just a little while longer, yes. Our plans with the humans here are almost complete, and then we won’t have to hide anymore. Especially,” Tamlin’s voice deepens into a growl. “If we have Velaris.”</p>
<p><em>Velaris.</em> The ultimate prize. If only Amarantha had been able to extract it’s location from Rhysand under the mountain, the outcome of the war would have been different. The fae would no longer need to hide or cooperate with the humans.</p>
<p>The world would belong to them.</p>
<p>Lucien is turning to leave when Tamlin stops him with a few parting words. “Take care with Rhysand Night—his power may be diminished from the war, but he’ll still be strong enough to put up a fight. And he’ll have plenty of motive, if he figures out who you are.”</p>
<p>Lucien eyes Tamlin warily. “Why?”</p>
<p>Sometimes, when Tamlin smiles, Lucien is certain he is looking straight into the face of the wolf that lives inside him—all teeth and hunger and malice. “Because, Lucien, the power that Amarantha stole from him now belongs to you…and he can still steal it back.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>It's 2:30am on Christmas day and I'm writing and editing, because I'm a dedicated soul that way. And also, this is my wind down before bed after staying up crazy late to finish a project that I put off for two full weeks and is due on Sunday. But sleeping is overrated and I have a few chapters for uploading!</p>
<p>Also, I'll be starting to edit my tags for Rhys', because I warned you guys that backstory was coming up and here it goes. Briefly implies past rape and mentions of domestic abuse. Because I can't let any of these characters off easily, I guess. I just have to be mean to them.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“You know,” Amarantha whispers in Rhys’ ear, her voice almost gleeful as her red stained lips brush near that pointed edge, “you’re just making this harder than it has to be.” She strokes her open hand down the front of his bare chest, her sharp fingernails lazily tracing the lines of the tattoos there as she follows the contours of his chest. Rhys forces himself to take steadying breaths as she touches him, eyes drifting closed so that he doesn’t have to look at her. He doesn’t want to see her face or the places that she touches him, doesn’t want her hands on him at all. Rhysand Night wants to be anywhere, <strong>anyone</strong>, else at that moment. He pulls at his restraints around his wrists and ankles and tries to fight to escape where he’s tied down to the bed. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But he doesn’t have the strength anymore. He knows he doesn’t have the strength anymore. He can feel the hole, the gaps where his magic used to be before she took it from him. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Before she took everything else from him.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“I think we could get along well, you and I,” Amarantha purrs. Her hand traces lower and lower, to the curves of his hips, traveling slowly inward along Rhys’ naked form. She leans in and kisses his neck, just below his ear, her mouth nipping at the skin there. “If you would just give me what I want.”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Fuck you,” Rhys spits the words right as his stomach pulls taut and Amarantha’s hand moves over the beginning of his thigh. She’s drawing out the movement as he grits his teeth, teasing her way inward, showing him how she can touch him, how she can do what she pleases.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She doesn’t seem bothered by his words, though. In fact, if anything, she seems amused by them, by how he keeps fighting her. She pulls away from him enough to tower over him, her long red hair brushing against his bare chest as she looks down at him with a grin that Rhys can only describe as evil. “Well,” she says smoothly, lifting her long skirt to reveal her legs, “if you insist.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rhys wakes with a start, his teeth gritted to bite back the scream that’s threatening to explode from his chest. He takes a few full breaths in and out, forcing himself to actually <em>breathe</em> as his fingers dig into the carpeting around him. He doesn’t recognize his surroundings at first, has to remind himself where he is and what he’s doing there, and that <em>she</em> isn’t here.</p>
<p>
  <em>If you insist.</em>
</p>
<p>It’s only a dream, he thinks silently, letting his head fall back against the wall he’s been propped against uncomfortably all night. It’s only a dream. It’s only a dream.</p>
<p>Amarantha is dead.</p>
<p>He’s alive. His friends are alive. He’s in Hewn City. He’s working.</p>
<p><em>Feyre</em>.</p>
<p>His eyes open sharply, gaze moving from Feyre’s bedroom door up and down the hallway. It’s quiet up here and the sun is beating down on him. He can feel the aches in his body from sleeping on the floor as he forces himself to stand, trying to work out the knots in his back and shoulders and the kinks in his neck as he adjusts his black suit into place. He takes extra care to make sure his dress shirt is buttoned to the top, the collar crisply folded, none of his chest or tattoos in view.</p>
<p>It’s a reflex from the dream, he knows. His collar is already buttoned up and in shape—it always is. He hasn’t been able to stomach anything else since…since…Rhys shakes his head to try and dislodge the dream, to keep it from replaying in his head over and over again. It’s been a long time since he’s dreamt of her and his experiences under the mountain. He’d thought that maybe he’d gotten past all of it, that maybe he would be able to move on. Then he saw those drawings and paintings of Feyre’s and…</p>
<p>He should have known. He should have expected….</p>
<p>Rhys isn’t sure what he should have known or expected, or how he could have, but he can’t shake the thought, the <em>belief</em>, that he should have. He just should have.</p>
<p>He paces to Feyre’s door and reaches forward, pausing for just a moment as if to reconsider, then knocks gently. No answer. He reaches for the doorknob, vaguely aware of how his palm feels sweaty at the thought of stepping into her room, and clumsily pushes the door open.</p>
<p>The bed in unmade, the blankets tossed over the side. No one is here. Feyre’s already up and left.</p>
<p><em>Shit</em>.</p>
<p>The sound of laughter drifts up the stairs, drawing Rhys’ attention. He has to work to calm the sudden, frantic sort of fear that rises up in him faster than he can control it, the thought that it wasn’t just a dream, that it’s a living nightmare and <em>she</em> really is here and somehow she has Feyre and it’s all happening over again screaming in his mind. He cuts through the hallway faster than he should, nearly tumbles over the stairs as he takes them three steps at a time, glares around the front room until he hears the sounds of voices and laughter again and is in a near frenzy when he shoves way into the kitchen to find Feyre at the table with a cup of coffee. Nesta is laughing at something as she rinses her cup in the sink and sets it down on the countertop while Feyre picks at some sort of pastry.</p>
<p>Nesta’s cheerful demeanor sobers immediately upon seeing Rhys in the doorway, with the dark circles under his eyes and his hair all ruffled from an awkward sleeping position. She didn’t sleep much better than he did, if she’s honest. His words had bothered her all night long, warping and taunting her in her dreams for the few hours that she slept. Finally, she had given up and gotten dressed for the day, taking extra care with her makeup to cover her sleepless night—as she has so many times before—and decided to start working early from home.</p>
<p>
  <em>“What’s going on?”</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Rhys struggles to find the words to reply, to make those words come out. “I don’t know,” he admits, hating the sound of it. “But I think you’re right.” He looks from one sister to the other. “I think she’s in danger, and she has no idea how much.”</em>
</p>
<p>Nesta has no idea what happened, why Rhys had seemed so bothered by what he’d found in Feyre’s work, and he’d offered no explanations. She wasn’t ready to ask him yet, too afraid of the answers, and she could tell from the silence—and the tangible fear—that fell between them that Rhys was not prepared to answer her even if she had asked, anyway. All Nesta knows is that something is terribly, terribly wrong, and she’s doing the only thing she knows she might able to do to protect her youngest sister.</p>
<p>Feyre yawns from her seat at the table and glowers at Rhys, still standing in the doorway, looking like hell. “You know, if you were going to sleep in the hallway like that, you could’ve at least <em>tried</em> not to snore so loudly.”</p>
<p>Nesta breaks eye contact with Rhys and looks back at her sister once more, worry etched in her features, before giving him a pointed look and moving to leave as Rhys steps into the room. The meaning in that look isn’t lost on him.</p>
<p><em>Watch her</em>.</p>
<p>As if he really needs to be told at this point. Rhysand Night has already determined that he’s not going to take his fucking eyes off Feyre Archeron until he knows exactly what the hell is going on.</p>
<p>“I don’t snore.” Rhys’ voice sounds foreign and raw, as if he’d been screaming in his sleep.</p>
<p>
  <em>I want to hear you scream my name.</em>
</p>
<p>The words come to him without any warning and he clenches and unclenches his hands at the sound of them in his head, forcing another steadying breath. He’s not there. He’s here, in Feyre’s kitchen, watching her act like a spoiled brat as she drinks her cup of coffee.</p>
<p>Feyre snorts in response, rolling her blue eyes that look cooler in the light of the morning. “Could’ve fooled me. Maybe you should see a doctor,” she says, pushing out of her seat. She walks over to the counter and pours another cup of coffee for Rhys, shaking something that looks like sugar from a jar into it before stalking back to the table. “It could be something bad, like sleep apnea—can fae <em>have</em> sleep apnea?”</p>
<p>Rhys watches her take her seat again, picking up her cup of coffee and giving him an innocent look, curling her lips inward as if she’s trying to keep a secret. He’s too fucking tired for this. The coffee better be good, because he’s not sure he’ll make it through the day otherwise. “No. We don’t get sleep apnea.”</p>
<p>Hell if Rhys knows. He doesn’t keep up with the human side of the wall to know what sleep apnea even is, let alone if he has it.</p>
<p>Feyre hums in response, taking another sip of her coffee, her eyes drifting closed as she savors the taste. “Well, maybe you’re just special.”</p>
<p>Rhys can hardly believe her attitude this morning, especially after she was nearly kidnapped last night, but if he doesn’t have <em>something</em> to help clear his head, he’s pretty sure that he’s going to reach across the table and throttle her, so he takes a seat across from her and picks up the cup she left out for him and takes a big drink, not caring how hot it might be.</p>
<p>Rhys gags and spits it out immediately afterward as Feyre watches with an amused grin. He coughs and tries to keep from throwing up on the table in front of him, although it vaguely occurs to him that if he does throw up, then he’s going to aim for Feyre. She gives him an innocent, worried look that’s so far from genuine that Rhys has to physically grip the table to keep from leaping across it and coming after her. “Is everything okay?”</p>
<p>Rhys takes his cup and does his best to spit the last bit of coffee laced heavily with salt from his mouth, his violet eyes fixed on her as he gives her a look that’s made powerful fae piss their pants in fear. On Feyre, however, it seems to have very little effect. “Too hot.”</p>
<p>Feyre feigns a remorseful expression, shaking her head in apology. “I should have warned you,” she says, barely making an effort to hide the laughter in her voice.</p>
<p>Rhys pushes the cup away from him on the table and silently reevaluates whether getting answers is actually worth protecting this <em>human</em>, or even stopping himself from killing her.</p>
<p>He could make it quick, he thinks. She wouldn’t even have time to know what was happening to her.</p>
<p>He forces himself to give her a smile, albeit not a friendly one. “My fault. I shouldn’t have tried to drink it so quickly.” When Feyre hums dismissively and goes to another sip from her cup, Rhys adds, “But I accept your offer to mate.”</p>
<p>Feyre nearly chokes on her coffee as Rhys watches in satisfaction. Coffee watered down with milk dribbles down her chin as she glares over at him and goes to wipe at it with her sleeve. “<em>Excuse me</em>?”</p>
<p>Rhys’ grin grows a little wider. “You made me food—to fae, that’s a clear offer to mate.” It’s a stretch of the truth. A <em>big</em> stretch of the truth. But she doesn’t need to know that.</p>
<p>“Coffee isn’t food,” she insists quickly, a hint of panic in her voice.</p>
<p>Rhys can’t help himself. “The rules aren’t that specific,” he says, leaning toward and waving a hand dismissively. “What matters is that now we’re bound together, you and I.” The way Feyre’s eyes go wide at the suggestion makes Rhys’ grin just a little bigger. “Two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one. We’re inseparable now, Feyre, darling.” He can see all the smugness slipping away from her as she watches him, silently wondering if he’s telling the truth and what the hell she just got into. “We even have to share your room.”</p>
<p>So Rhys can keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t slip away again, that is. But if Feyre thinks that she’s somehow just stumbled into an impossible bargain with him that she can’t take back, then, well…he should enjoy it as long as he can before she tries to do something stupid and steal his car again. Or worse.</p>
<p>Feyre swallows nervously, suddenly losing her taste for coffee. Maybe she should try tea. She bets tea is pretty good. But she still refuses to back down. “Did you just quote John Keats?” She tries to make her voice sound as unaffected as she can, to not let her annoyance and—hell—<em>fear</em> that she just stupidly got caught up in some fae loophole and now she’ll have to go to Nesta to try and help her figure a way out of it.</p>
<p>Rhys’ grin falters for only a second, but Feyre doesn’t miss it. “A human with a taste for fae poetry.” <em>That’s curious.</em></p>
<p>Feyre glares at him, a little of her smugness slipping back into place. “John Keats,” she starts with authority, “was <em>not</em> fae.”</p>
<p>Rhys’ grin goes from vaguely threatening to genuine amusement. “Keats was fae.”</p>
<p>“He was not,” she insists. “I know it for a fact.”</p>
<p>“And <em>how</em>, exactly, do you know this?”</p>
<p>Feyre huffs, crossing her arms over her chest as she gives him a look that’s clearly meant to emphasize her superiority at having this knowledge. “I <em>am</em> a highly educated woman, you know.” Well, she thinks, she’s in college, anyway. Art college. She’d probably <em>die</em> if she had to read poetry for class.</p>
<p>Rhys looks at her with an expression that says he’s not convinced, idly brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from his black suit sleeve as Feyre grows more irritated.</p>
<p>“I know he’s not fae,” Feyre insists again, refusing to be wrong, “because I read John Keats and was told so by an expert.” Well, Feyre thinks again, calling him an expert may be a bit of a stretch, but it’s good enough for Rhysand Night.</p>
<p>Now Rhys is intrigued, although he doesn’t let it show through his cocky demeanor. It’s too fun, he thinks, too easy to ruffle Feyre’s feathers. And a welcome relief after the night he had. “And what expert gave you this <em>false</em> information?”</p>
<p>It’s clear as the two of them sit and gaze at each other that neither one is going to back down, so Feyre just huffs and scowls before she replies, “<em>Tamlin</em> is an expert on literature and poetry, and has his own library of antique and classic books. In fact, he and Lucien buy rare art and antiques and are partners in a business that sells to private collectors all over the world.”</p>
<p><em>Tamlin</em>. <em>Very interesting</em>. “Lucien,” Rhys says slowly, making the name sound almost hypnotic as he watches Feyre’s response, the way her shoulders seem to slacken unconsciously as she hears it. There’s still a hint of that magic there, he thinks. It hasn’t completely worked its way out of her system. “The one from last night?”</p>
<p>Feyre glares at him, her eyes narrowing as her forehead pulls down. “What do you mean, ‘the one from last night’?”</p>
<p>Rhys is careful not to let his expression change, not to let her see how the humor is quickly leaving him as he pushes for more information. “The club. He tried to help you home,” Rhys supplies, watching as Feyre appears to not comprehend anything he’s saying. “He said you had too much to drink.”</p>
<p>But Feyre doesn’t remember that. She doesn’t remember seeing Lucien at all…she doesn’t think.</p>
<p>
  <em>Tamlin sent me to bring you back.</em>
</p>
<p>She may have dreamed about him, though. That smooth way his voice sounds to her, like silk caressing her skin. She doesn’t notice the way her body relaxes at the mere memory of what he sounds like, or how her pulse and her breathing automatically start to slow.</p>
<p>It’s impossible for Rhys to miss. Whatever magic Lucien used on her, it was strong—and it wasn’t the first time. A response like that, Rhys thinks, takes multiple exposures. He’d done something similar enough times himself during the wars when he was interrogating prisoners or turning spies to recognize the signs of it.</p>
<p>He’d never been as good at getting information as Azriel, of course, but Azriel was always a force unto himself and had never needed magic to get what he wanted. He doubts if he would have survived back then without Azriel. Or all those hard nights afterward, when he was too plagued by nightmares of what had happened to be able to sleep alone.</p>
<p>“Feyre?” Rhys prompts. He watches her blink for a long moment before her gaze focuses in on him again, confusion on her face.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>He won’t get any information on Lucien from her, he thinks, but maybe he’ll get lucky. “Tell me about Tamlin.”</p>
<p>She frowns, whatever tension that left her body at the mention of Lucien immediately returning. He doesn’t seem to have the same hold over her, Rhys thinks. But his ‘partner’ clearly has magic, and Tamlin introduced her to fae poetry. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Why would I want to tell you about Tamlin?”</p>
<p>Rhys gives her a shrug that doesn’t betray how much he’s trying to probe her for information. “Nesta thinks he’s dangerous.”</p>
<p>“Nesta needs to figure out her own life and stop interfering in mine,” Feyre says sharply, a dramatic contrast to the way she was laughing and smiling with her older sister only moments ago. Rhys’ eyebrows go up in surprise at the sudden shift in Feyre. Defensive.</p>
<p>“So, why does Nesta keep interfering, then?”</p>
<p>It’s a simple question, but he can tell Feyre is reluctant to answer. That she really doesn’t want to talk about it. Rhys doubts that he’ll get information out of her sister any easier than he can from Feyre, but if Feyre will give him something, <em>anything</em>, to work from…then something is always better than nothing.</p>
<p>Feyre looks away, staring down at her now discarded cup of coffee. All the smug and glee is long gone from her face as she sighs. “Look…Nesta…” She tries to figure out how to say it without actually having to say it. They don’t about talk it, the sisters, even if they all know what happened and the fallout from it. “She was married and…the relationship wasn’t…” Rhys watches as Feyre shifts in her seat and refuses to meet his gaze. “Healthy.” She swallows nervously. “She got hurt pretty badly and…he went away because of it…and she had some problems after.”</p>
<p>A bad relationship where Nesta got hurt—and he went somewhere after because of it? “He beat her?” Rhys keeps his voice low, gentle, to keep Feyre calm and relaxed to keep talking. He tries to imagine the woman he met yesterday, the one who keeps trying to stare him down and make sure he knows his place, in an abusive marriage. Truthfully, it’s not hard for him to picture. All that bluster, he thinks, could just be her compensating.</p>
<p>“He…” Feyre shakes her head. She doesn’t want to say it. She doesn’t even want to think it—about the times she sat by her sister’s hospital bed or watched Nesta pull sleeves over her bruises, or the times she’d see Nesta flinch when one of Tomas’ friends reached out to touch her in a way that made Feyre and Elain freeze and look toward Nesta in concern. “It was bad. And she got out of it.” She swallows again, pushing back the memories. “But she doesn’t look at men the same way anymore. You know? She doesn’t trust them. Everyone…is dangerous to Nesta if she doesn’t keep them at arm’s length.”</p>
<p>Rhys can’t take much more of watching her fidget and shift in her seat. He’s not sure what’s worse—smug Feyre or uncomfortable, avoidant Feyre. “But Tamlin isn’t dangerous?”</p>
<p>Feyre snorts in disdain, reaching forward to take her cup in her hands again just so she has something to do with them. “Tamlin is just—Tamlin.” She’s even not sure how she would describe Tamlin. Beautiful? Sweet? Arrogant? Possessive?</p>
<p>But Rhys wants more, if he can get it out of her. “Meaning?”</p>
<p>Feyre gives him a long, shrewd look. She’s had just about enough of these questions. She’s not even sure how they got here to start with. “Tamlin is a tall, beautiful, cultured man who I apparently wasn’t good enough for until I decided to move on.”</p>
<p>Rhys wants more information, wants to push harder. He almost wishes that he had more of his own magic left, that he knew what magic Lucien had used on her and could tap into it. Questions were so much easier, he thinks, when he could use magic as a means of suggestion.</p>
<p>Humans were a lot easier, too, come to think of it.</p>
<p>But the look Feyre gives him says that she thinks the conversation is over at the exact same time that Rhys’ cell phone rings for Cassian to check in with him, and Rhys has to make a choice. He doesn’t want to let Feyre out of his sight now, not even in her own home—especially not if there’s magic involved—but he doesn’t want Feyre to hear the conversation.</p>
<p>“You should answer it,” Feyre tells him, pushing away from her seat and walking toward the sink. She rinses her cup quickly before setting it down next to Nesta’s. “<em>I’m</em> going to go get a shower and get some work done on my portfolio today.” She says it with determination, as if those are <em>her</em> plans and Rhys isn’t invited. Which is frustrating, because not only does Rhys refuse to leave her side, he could use a shower, too. But at least it gives him a chance to take the call without her overhearing.</p>
<p>He answers the phone quickly as he gets up to follow Feyre into the hall. “Hold on, Cas.” He doesn’t bother to wait for Cassian to acknowledge him as he pulls the phone away from his ear and follows Feyre up the stairs as she glances back at him.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?”</p>
<p>Rhys gives her a serious look, as if it should be obvious why he’s following her back to her bedroom. “I told you, Feyre, darling—we’re mates now. Inseparable.” He tries not to let his satisfaction show at the concerned look on her face, as if she really didn’t take him seriously.</p>
<p>“Bullshit.” No way in hell is Feyre going to be his mate.</p>
<p>Rhys’ serious look gives way to a little quirk of his lips, as if he can read her thoughts. For a brief moment, Feyre wonders if he can. “Don’t worry. I won’t peak.”</p>
<p>Even if he does watch the way her hips move as she takes the last few steps and he’s going to enjoy sitting outside her bathroom door, letting the hot steam escape gently from under the door and imagining that he’s back in a birchin in Velaris—when he hangs up with Cassian, anyway.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s disconcerting to be back in Feyre’s room with all the sketches and paintings that Rhys knows are littered about, hiding pieces of a world that Feyre should not be privy to. It’s even more disconcerting to be sitting on the floor, glaring at that stack of paintings, while Feyre is in the shower and Rhys is trying explain everything to Cassian over the phone before she can come out. “What do you mean, she knows?”</p>
<p>“She has paintings and sketches here,” Rhys says, trying his best to convey the full extent of what he’s seen without actually discussing the content. They don’t talk about Velaris, not out loud. Not anymore. Not ever again. It cost them all enough in the last war to protect it—they aren’t taking any more chances. Especially not when Rhys isn’t even sure what they’re dealing with. “Places she can’t know—places <em>we</em> do know.”</p>
<p>“You’re not making sense. You can’t mean—<em>there</em>—can you?” Cassian won’t believe unless he sees it for himself. But then, Rhys thinks, he wouldn’t have either.</p>
<p>“Yes. <em>There</em>.”</p>
<p>“You’re sure?”</p>
<p>If it wasn’t so hard to believe, Rhys would be almost be offended at the question. “I’m sure.” Rhys could never forget the sights and sounds of Velaris. He <em>would</em> never forget them. And he could never mistake them for anywhere else. There’s the sound of Cassian taking a heavy breath on the other end of the phone.</p>
<p>“What—what does that mean?” He can see Cassian pacing a few steps in their pathetic office, the floor tiles peeling and chipping under his feet. “How is that possible?”</p>
<p>Rhys would like to know that, too. “There’s more. She has paintings here, portraits. Of….people we know.” Rhys has to ignore the twisting in his stomach at the idea of saying <em>her</em> name.</p>
<p>There’s a long silence on the other end of phone. Rhys knows Cassian has paused, is too stunned to even move or react for that silent moment. “You can’t mean…”</p>
<p>“And the other one,” Rhys doesn’t bother to respond to Cassian’s statement, doesn’t want to acknowledge it, the name that neither one of them wants to say aloud. He almost laughs bitterly at the way they avoid it—the same way that Feyre seems so desperate to avoid talking about her sister. “The one who worked for her.” The one whose name he never knew, who killed his family while he was forced to watch. “I think he’s Tamlin.”</p>
<p>Cassian lets out a low, angry swear in an old fae language—too old for any kind of translation. A swear used sparingly and only when no other words exist to say what needs to be said. “<strong><em>Feyre’s</em></strong><em> Tamlin?</em>”</p>
<p>“Whatever the fuck she’s into,” Rhys says, stretching out his legs in the direction of the painting stack. He’d turned them all backward so he didn’t have to see the faces looking back at him when he walked into the room. It was the only way he could stand the idea of being in here. “She has no idea how bad it is.”</p>
<p>“How the fuck did we get this job?”</p>
<p>“That,” Rhys says sharply, emphasizing the <em>t</em> sound in Cassian’s ear, “is what you’re going to find out from Nesta when you get here.”</p>
<p>Cassian’s eyebrows go up. He’s curious now. He doesn’t want to leave the office, but he does want to know what’s going on and he wouldn’t mind another opportunity to see the older Archeron sister. “What are you talking about?”</p>
<p>“I can’t leave Feyre if there’s magic involved. If I wasn’t at the club, Elain wouldn’t have been able to stop Lucien for very long.” Rhys doubts if she could have withstood much more of that magic. He wonders how many times Lucien had turned that magic on Feyre, how long it took to train her to respond so easily that she melts at the very sound of his name. “But I can’t keep an eye on all three sisters <em>and</em> figure out what’s going on.”</p>
<p>Despite the seriousness of the situation, he can see Cassian’s mouth curl up into a smirk, the way his face pulls into an expression of entertainment. “Are you saying the great Rhysand Night can’t handle a little human job all on his own? <em>He needs help</em>?”</p>
<p>Rhys wishes he could pummel him through the phone. Maybe he could have, if he had his full powers back. He never tried before.</p>
<p>It was amusing to imagine, at least.</p>
<p>“I’m saying that it’s time for you and Amren to get off your asses and actually do some real work.”</p>
<p>At the mention of Amren’s name, Cassian lets out a strangled chuckle. “Maybe we should wait for Azriel. He’s supposed to be back today and he’s better with humans than Amren is.”</p>
<p>Rhys glares at the stack of paintings in lieu of his best friend and adopted brother. “Do I <em>want</em> to know?”</p>
<p>Cassian opens his mouth to respond, thinks better of it, then goes to say anyway before he’s cut off by the sound of Amren letting out an unearthly cry in the background that Rhys is certain makes the very ground underneath them quake. “She’s taking this thing with the electricity very personally.” Something crackles and pops. “And also the fire I accidently started. Her access to Hewn City has been restricted to only our office and living spaces after what happened with the Fire Marshal.”</p>
<p>Rhys definitely doesn’t want to know. “Just get down here the minute Azriel gets back.”</p>
<p>When Rhys ends the call, he pointedly looks at the time and sends a silent prayer to whatever old gods may be listening that it doesn’t take too long and this, whatever this is, is all just a misunderstanding.</p>
<p>Even if he knows deep in his bones that it isn’t.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Feyre, meanwhile, is purposely taking as long as she can in the shower. Or in the bathroom, anyway. She already finished bathing and is sitting awkwardly on the toilet seat cover with her towel tightly wrapped around, trying to see through the steam as the shower keeps running. She’s been frantically waving tufts of steam out of her view to try and see her phone as she types out her internet search.</p>
<p>Unsure of what, exactly, to search, she quickly googles the most obvious terms she can come up with—<em>fae </em>and <em>mates</em>.</p>
<p>Google quickly comes back with thousands of results and Feyre silently thanks the benevolent internet gods. With so many results, she thinks, she <em>has</em> to be able to find the answers she needs there. She clicks into the first link, frowning down at her phone screen, trying to keep the glass from fogging as she reads something about how fae like to hoard treasure. Scowling, she clicks back to the search results and tries another link—information about fae bathing habits.</p>
<p>Another link—fae mating rituals. Now, she thinks, she’s getting somewhere. She scans through the website quickly, feeling her already hot skin flush at the sheer amount of detail and each debaucherous act listed there. Her teeth catch on her lower lip as she pauses at an illustration of a fae male and female, one of his hands holding her body in place as the other lifts her leg at a wide angle and their hips thrust into each other, her face thrown back in a look of pleasure. The next one down shows a female sandwiched between two males with an expression of sinful bliss. There’s a line of text about how some fae will mate for days, even weeks sometimes, not even stopping to eat.</p>
<p>Feyre’s fingers have a slight tremble to them as she clicks back to the results and goes to another link.</p>
<p>Fae are unnatural and demonic and drink the blood of children.</p>
<p>Another.</p>
<p>Fae have the power to hypnotize and seduce with only the sound of their voice.</p>
<p>Another.</p>
<p>Mates will naturally be drawn to each other and may even form something like a telepathic connection, seeing each other’s lives and their dreams as they try to find their ways to each other.</p>
<p>Another.</p>
<p><em>Once a pair becomes mates, the bond can never be broken</em>.</p>
<p>Feyre stares down at the phone through the fog and steam. Her fingers feel numb. She tries to force her mind to think, to work, to come up with <em>something</em>. What was it Rhys said?</p>
<p>
  <em>But I accept your offer to mate. You made me food—to fae, that’s a clear offer to mate.</em>
</p>
<p>Feyre had offered and he accepted. That didn’t actually make them mates…did it? After all, it doesn’t count if Feyre isn’t aware that she’s offering…<em>right</em>?</p>
<p>“GODDAMN YOU, RHYSAND NIGHT.” She jumps from the toilet, pulls the cover up and dumps her phone in there without thinking, slamming her hand down on the handle to flush it.</p>
<p>You can’t believe everything you read on the internet, Feyre thinks silently, trying to make herself feel a comfort and confidence that she doesn’t quite believe—especially once she realizes what she just did to her phone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>From his spot where he’s waiting for her in the bedroom, Rhys has no idea why Feyre just cursed his name.</p>
<p>But he can’t help but chuckle in response.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*yawns* okay, I'm having so much fun with this, and I'm desperately hoping that there aren't any typos in this because my eyes are a little blurry and I should go to bed.</p>
<p>But hey, a little Nessian is coming up in the next chapter, sooo...I'm excited.</p>
<p>Also, I somehow found myself writing some Rhys/Azriel in this? I don't hate the idea at all? Like, it just works for me? What do people think about it?</p>
<p>Also, also, how amazing it is that this story has gotten so many hits and kudos? I don't think I've ever written anything that's gotten this much attention, so just thank you to everyone giving the story a read and hanging out with me! You're all amazing and this is probably my favorite thing about the end of 2020 (aside from the fact that 2020 is actually ending, that is).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes some coordinating for Feyre and Rhys to work out her coming out of the bathroom to dry off and get dressed. “You could <em>leave</em> me alone to get dressed, you know.” She huffs as she walks over to the closet, looking for something to wear, pointedly not looking at Rhys as she feels his eyes on her back. She clutches her towel closed a little more tightly, her face turning bright red at the words she’d just read in her internet search as the illustrations flash in her mind.</p>
<p><em>Some fae will mate for days, even weeks at a time, not even stopping to eat</em>.</p>
<p>She doesn’t dare look at Rhys as she grabs at the first clothes she sees and hopes that they come together in some semblance of an outfit, her face still burning.</p>
<p>Rhys has no idea why she’s so angry or why she’s refusing to look toward him, but he can feel his face growing sore from his amused grin as he watches her. “And risk you going out another window and stealing my car again? I don’t think so.”</p>
<p>Feyre huffs, stomping away from her closet toward her dresser to grab a toiletry bag from the top drawer and nearly tripping over something as she does. “I only did that once.”</p>
<p>Rhys snorts in response. “Once is enough. And you did it within twenty-four hours of meeting me.”</p>
<p>She scowls and turns to face him, unprepared for the look of Rhys’ amused, admittedly well-formed face, in light of what she’d just read. She stumbles over the first words out of her mouth, making Rhys’ grin deepen as he watches her, and huffs before continuing. “I was making a point.”</p>
<p>Rhys tries to make himself look like he’s taking her more seriously than he is, tries to force his face to look a little more solemn, but it proves to be too difficult for him. “Oh? What point is that?”</p>
<p>Feyre wants to project confidence and poise, the sort of surety and authority that even Rhysand Night would have to look at and respect. As she stabs a finger in his direction, however, she suspects that she falls short. Wildly, dramatically short. “That I don’t need any help,” she declares. She turns toward the bathroom to dry off and get dressed in privacy and immediately trips over one of her paintings, falling forward in a <em>thud</em> that makes Rhys jump to his feet.</p>
<p>“Clearly,” he replies dryly.</p>
<p>Feyre could die of embarrassment right now. When she pushes herself up and realizes that her towel caught on the corner of the painting and managed to fall loose before she fell on her face, she hopes that maybe she already has and this is all just some horrible nightmare. She pushes her naked body up from the floor, trying to cover herself as she scrambles to get to her feet before Rhys can see her.</p>
<p>It’s too late, of course. Not only did Rhys jump when she fell, he’s crossed the room to her and has managed to retrieve her towel before she can even get herself up off the floor. He’s even reaching out for her as she stumbles on her own unsteady feet, her naked body colliding into his clothed form in one motion so swift that neither of them can stop. Once they connect, though, it’s almost magnetic how they seem to fit together—Feyre curling her body against his, her breasts pressed against his chest as she takes slow, heavy breaths and Rhys gazes down at her. The world around them seems to fall away in that moment and the only thing that matters is their presence, that contact. The press of Feyre against Rhys, the way her leg is almost curling around one of his from how she tried to catch herself. The feeling of Rhys’ body hard against hers, the surety of it. The heat. The bulge between his legs.</p>
<p><em>Some fae will mate for days, even weeks at a time, not even stopping to eat</em>.</p>
<p>God above, make her forget she ever read that.</p>
<p>Neither one of them is sure who breaks away first, although both Rhys and Feyre would claim that <em>they</em> were the one to do it. Feyre tries in vain to cover herself as Rhys stands a little stiffly and looks in any other direction than the naked human female in front of him—even if, despite himself, he really doesn’t mind the view. It’s not one that he’s going to forget any time soon, that’s for sure.</p>
<p>Feyre clears her throat. “I’m going to just—” She gestures toward the bathroom, not that Rhys can see it as he stares in any other direction than toward her.</p>
<p>“Right,” Rhys agrees absently. “And you should…” He holds out the towel, guessing that it’s probably in her general direction and hoping that he’s not accidentally shoving it at her naked body.</p>
<p>Feyre swallows and nods slowly. “Right.” She can’t seem to manage actually saying more than a few words at a time. “Thanks.” She grabs the towel from his hand and tries to act dignified—or at least not horrified—as she walks back into the bathroom and closes the door, sighing in relief the moment she hears the knob click. She can feel her face burning, every part of her body suddenly awake in that way that she’s not really sure how to describe.</p>
<p>She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so…<em>aroused</em>…before. Not even with Isaac or Tamlin. As if her body just…<em>wanted</em> Rhys.</p>
<p>Craved him.</p>
<p>Needed him.</p>
<p><em>Some fae will mate for days, even weeks at a time, not even stopping to eat</em>.</p>
<p>Her throat is dry as she swallows and waves a hand at herself to try and cool down, wondering for just a moment how true that is—and just what, exactly, it would be like.</p>
<p>The thought leaves her feeling like she needs another shower…a cold one.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>If Feyre were able to read Rhys’ thoughts on the other side of the door, she would probably be amused to find that he’s dealing with a similar thought. That he’s since paced from the bathroom door to the farthest part of the room away from her, readjusted his suit jacket and flicked dirt and dust that wasn’t really there from the sleeves. He’s tried not think about the wet spots on his clothes where her body was pressed against his, or how he could clearly feel her nipples pressing into him as her body responded to him. Or how his responded to her.</p>
<p>He’s not sure what to think of Feyre Archeron, not at this point, but he has to give her this—for a human female…she’s…<em>beautiful</em>.</p>
<p>Beautiful? Rhys readjusts his suit jacket one more time. He <em>could</em> use a cold shower if he’s looking at Feyre Archeron and thinking she’s beautiful. Or that he liked the feeling of her pressed up against him.</p>
<p>He’d wondered about the last time he’d felt the freedom and connection with another person to be able to relax with them, to let go with them, the way Feyre did at the club. He really <em>doesn’t</em> remember, especially in light of his nightmare that morning. What he remembers most clearly is the months after his escape from under the mountain, the nights Azriel had spent with him—the feeling of just not being alone, being with someone who understood to some degree the feeling of being trapped.</p>
<p>The comfort of moving past the pain and trauma with someone who felt familiar and safe.</p>
<p>Both of them had known it wouldn’t, <em>couldn’t</em>, last. But it had been what Rhys had needed at that moment, and Rhys couldn’t deny that what he’d felt for Azriel then had been more real than anything he’d ever experienced with a lover before.</p>
<p>But then again, he thinks, he’s also never found himself in this position, either—in a human girl’s bedroom, surrounded by memories from his home that she’s drawn, and trying to figure out exactly what it is about Feyre that seems to draw him in. What, he wonders silently, running a hand through his unusually ruffled hair, is it that makes standing so close to Feyre so…affecting to him?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Let's play a game--GUESS WHAT BOOK NESTA IS WRITING IN HER SECRET DOUBLE LIFE AS A ROMANCE NOVELIST?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nesta is caught up in her work when the doorbell rings.</p><p>Well, okay, not <em>exactly</em> her work. Technically, Nesta has taken over her father’s business sourcing expensive gemstones and metals for various jewelers all over the country. It was an unfortunate side effect of her returning home after Tomas’ arrest and their subsequent divorce. Nesta had already put going to college off in favor of her marriage to Tomas—Tomas had managed somehow to convince her that her education really wasn’t necessary, that <em>he</em> could provide for her. And anyway, Tomas said, it was better, more <em>suitable</em>, for her to be at home and to run the household. <em>It’s a lot of work to keep a house, Nesta, and I know you want to give us our best chance at being happy…right?</em></p><p>It was only after she was finally out of the marriage and back home that Nesta realized the way Tomas managed to convince her of anything was to belittle and threaten her. But it didn’t matter anymore. Her father was retiring and needed someone to step into the family business to take his place, and he’d always said that Nesta was his most capable daughter even though she despised him. So, Nesta moved back home and took over his work while he retired to somewhere sunny and warm and far away from Hewn City.</p><p>Which is fine with Nesta, she thinks, since he’d be bound to notice that she was juggling both his business selling materials to jewelers and her budding career as a romance novelist. In fact, she’s in the middle of writing a faerie story about a girl who’s taken by a cursed wolf after killing his friend, only to gradually discover that faeries are not the evil that she’d always imagined them to be.</p><p>And then, Nesta thinks, the sequel will turn everything on its head and make him into a bad guy and have her fall in love with someone else entirely, which will probably <em>also</em> be doomed, because men can’t be trusted where love is concerned.</p><p>She growls quietly and scowls at her office door as the bell rings a second, then a third time, before someone starts to knock insistently. Huffing, she closes her laptop quickly, making sure to click the save button on her work multiple times just to make sure the laptop doesn’t somehow lose everything. She pushes back from her desk, smooths her knee-length pencil skirt, and paces toward the door with a casual grace that she’s spent years practicing and perfecting. It’s only when she’s particularly stressed that she seems to achieve the best version of it, she thinks, and when she catches her reflection in the glass picture frame in the front room near the door, she decides that today she is in especially fine form.</p><p>In no so small part, she remembers, because that damned Rhysand Night has confirmed her worst suspicions. She pauses as she reaches out for the door handle, remembering how shaken Rhys had been the night before when she’d come up to Feyre’s room. He had said then that he believed Nesta was right, that Feyre was in incredible danger. Nesta purses her lips as she thinks that she should have pressed him for more information then. She had certainly wanted to.</p><p>But Rhys had seemed so…stunned? No, Nesta thinks, stunned isn’t the word for it. As if his entire world had just been tipped on its axis and everything he knew had to be reevaluated and readjusted. Nesta hadn’t had the heart to press him then. She’d certainly been in that position, could remember what it felt like. It wasn’t right to push, she’d decided. She still believes that. Even if it pisses her off.</p><p>Although it doesn’t quite piss her off as much as whoever’s on the other side of this door, getting ready to slam his fists into it again. She grips the door handle with a confidence and surety that she doesn’t really feel and pulls it out just as Cassian is rearing to give it another heavy knock. He pauses when he sees her holding the door open, a scowl on her face as she regards him with a raised eyebrow and a low noise that tells him that he’s not exactly welcome.</p><p>Cassian ignores it. “<em>Nesta</em>,” he greets her, emphasizing her name with a bright smile on his face as if he looks for reasons to say it. He lowers his fist and tilts his head toward her just a little, taking in her stylish work outfit and her <em>don’t fuck with me</em> posture, one hand still holding onto the door while she stares him down. “You look ready to beat the shit out of me.” Cassian’s grin grows just a little. “I like it. It’s a good look for you.”</p><p>It takes some effort for Nesta’s lips not to twitch at the comments. At least, she thinks, he’s smart enough to catch on that she doesn’t want him here. One fae in the house is enough for her, especially if that fae still hasn’t given her any useful information. “Cassian,” she replies simply in greeting. She doesn’t intend to make this conversation any longer than it has to be and Cassian does work for her at the moment, so it’s better to get straight to business than to try and pretend that they’re friendly with each other. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Cassian’s eyebrows up in surprise. “Rhys didn’t tell you?”</p><p>Nesta’s chin raises just a little as she glares up at him. He’s not actually that much taller than she is when she’s in those heels, spiked and elegant and matching her skirt perfectly, but height really isn’t the point. It’s all in how you carry yourself, she remembers from her lessons as a girl. “Didn’t tell me <em>what</em>?” She has a feeling that she’s not going to like this.</p><p>Cassian has that same feeling, too. In fact, he’s anticipating a war to break out in the Archeron house when he tells her… “I’m here as back up for Rhys—to protect you.” It’s mostly true, Cassian thinks. He’s also supposed to snoop and spy and squeeze information out of her whenever possible, but mainly he’s there to keep an eye on her.</p><p>An appreciative eye. A protective eye. A flirtatious eye.</p><p>Cassian’s pretty sure that he can manage all three and as he gazes down at Nesta and her absolute unhappiness that he’s there, he’s pretty sure that he <em>wants</em> to use all three with her. He likes his females with a little bit of fire and volatility in them.</p><p>“You’re <em>what</em>?” If this is a joke, Nesta thinks, she’s <em>not</em> amused.</p><p>But Cassian’s grin grows just a tiny bit wider. “I’m your bodyguard from now on, until this whole thing with Feyre’s ex is all sorted out.” Cassian could swear that Nesta is growling under her breath as she glares at him. “Are you going to invite me in?”</p><p>Nesta gives him a long, sharp look, before soundly replying, “<em>No</em>.” She closes the door in his face and turns on her high heels, almost losing her balance in her frustration as she walks toward the stairs, her steps just shy of stomping because the heels really won’t allow it without sending pain straight up her calves.</p><p>If Cassian’s grin could grow any wider as he reaches out and opens the door for himself, amused that Nesta didn’t think to lock it as he lets himself inside to watch Nesta clomp up the stairs, someone might think that his face was splitting in two. He makes quick work of closing and locking the door behind him, pacing up behind Nesta easily enough to keep time with her and realize that she’s heading straight to wherever Rhys is in the house to give him a piece of her mind—and he’s absolutely dying to see it happen.</p><p>Nesta nearly pushes Feyre’s door off the hinges as she shoves herself inside, glowering first at the state of Feyre’s room—at the <em>clothes</em> and supplies piled on every surface imaginable in a display of chaos that makes Nesta’s eye start to twitch—then at Rhys, who doesn’t even look surprised to see her. “I have a <em>bodyguard </em>now?”</p><p>Cassian stands behind Nesta, reaching a big palm over her head and waving to his friend. “You didn’t tell her I was coming?”</p><p>Rhys looks between Cassian and Nesta, debating his response. He didn’t tell Nesta that Cassian was coming, mostly because he’d been hoping to be out of the house by the time that Cassian got there. If Feyre wasn’t changing into her third outfit of the day, he thinks, he would’ve made a clean escape and left Cassian to deal with the fireworks. “I hadn’t quite gotten around to it,” Rhys lies smoothly. “We’re a little behind up here.” He gestures toward the mess Feyre has made as she comes out of her bathroom, adjusting her skinny jeans into just the right position at her hips as she looks over the crowd gathering in her bedroom.</p><p>“What the hell is going on?”</p><p>“That,” Nesta says through gritted teeth, “is what I’d like to know.” She gives Rhys a sharp look. “Would you care to explain it for us?”</p><p>Rhys looks to Cassian over Nesta’s head, silently waiting for Cassian to step in and explain things. The relevant things, Rhys amends mentally. Not the details about…Rhys doesn’t let himself think her name right now. He can’t think about her <em>and</em> Tamlin and Feyre and be able to make it through this day. He needs to sleep in a proper bed and take a shower and get a real meal first. If he doesn’t have something more in his system than extra salty coffee soon, he’s going to make like one of those faerie horror stories and start eating the humans.</p><p>Probably Feyre, he thinks, if she takes any longer to get ready.</p><p>Rhys looks between the sisters and shrugs. “It’s merely a precaution that seems necessary at this point in the case.” It’s the most neutral answer he can give at that moment and a calculated response. If he tells her that it’s because he knows Tamlin is fae and incredibly dangerous to Feyre and her family, it’s only going to cause a fight. It’s better to give them as little information as possible until they figure everything out and let Cassian answer Nesta’s questions while Rhys works on Feyre some more.</p><p>Preferably over a meal, he thinks. He was serious about eating the humans.</p><p>“A precaution?” Nesta doesn’t sound like she believes him.</p><p>“A <em>precaution</em>?” Feyre sounds like she doesn’t believe it’s come to this.</p><p>Cassian is just impressed that Rhys has managed to keep up his ability to give out diplomatic responses that offer no real information. “It’s just temporary,” Cassian says in an attempt to be reassuring, although Feyre thinks that Cassian should be the one to need reassuring when Nesta turns that glare on him. “Like with Rhys and Feyre. I’ll stay with you at the house, or at the work. Wherever you go or you might need me. You won’t even know that I’m here.”</p><p><em>None</em> of them look like they believe that.</p><p>“Really?” Cassian can’t decide whether he’s relieved or disappointed when she turns away from and goes back to glaring at Rhys. “And where will you be?”</p><p>Rhys doesn’t say anything in response, turning instead to Feyre as she reaches for a pair of boots to wear. Feyre is too preoccupied with putting on her boots to immediately notice that the three of them are waiting for her to respond with her plans for the day. It takes someone clearing their throat for Feyre to look up and see Rhys and Nesta waiting expectantly while Cassian is rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, trying to look nonchalant about the whole situation. “What?”</p><p>“Today,” Nesta replies. “Plans. What are you doing?”</p><p>Feyre just blinks. “Oh. I have to go back to the studio and work. Professor Hart let me schedule it so I have it all to myself today, so I can finish my portfolio. And I have to make sure everything’s prepared for the gallery showing—it’s the day after tomorrow and they keep misplacing everyone’s work.” She pauses for a few seconds as if something has occurred to her. “Did I pack my good brushes?” She reaches for her bag, digging a hand through it as she wanders toward the closet and Nesta takes a threatening step closer to Rhys, one finger pointed toward him.</p><p>“I let you off easy last night when I didn’t ask any questions,” Nesta says quietly enough that Feyre doesn’t hear. “But I want answers <em>now</em>. What the hell is going on?”</p><p>If Rhys even possessed the ability to be intimidated by a human, he supposes that Nesta would be the one to accomplish it. But, he thinks, since he has yet to find himself in that exact position, Nesta’s approach to him is less than effective. “What’s going on is that I’m taking Feyre to work,” Rhys answers easily, “and Cassian is going to stay here and answer all your questions.” Rhys pauses to look up at Cassian with an expression that says that he’s absolutely <em>not</em> to answer all her questions—not that Cassian really needs reminding on that. “And he can keep an eye on the house until tonight, when everyone gets here and we can make a plan.”</p><p>Nesta’s eyes narrow at Rhys as she tries to decipher his response for any hidden meaning. “What do you mean, <em>everyone gets here</em>?” Nesta’s expression turns from an angry scowl to a suspicious scowl. “Who else needs to be here?”</p><p>It occurs to Cassian that if Rhys didn’t mention he was coming, then he probably didn’t mention that Azriel is coming to keep watch over the other sister, either. If this wasn’t a golden opportunity to spend a little time with Nesta, Cassian thinks, he’d probably be upset with Rhys for leaving him to deal with the difficult sister. But then again, Cassian always <em>prefers</em> the difficult ones, so maybe it’s really a favor.</p><p>It’s always a little difficult to be sure with Rhys, if he’s honest.</p><p>“I can’t find my favorite brushes.” Feyre nearly throws her bag to the floor in frustration, still not noticing the tension in the room as Rhys, Nesta, and Cassian all exchange uneasy glances with each other. “I can’t work today.”</p><p>Rhys gives her a smile, the sort that says that he really doesn’t care and he just wants to leave as he reaches for her arm and pulls her toward the door. “You’re an artist, aren’t you? Get creative.”</p><p>Feyre is about to retort that that’s <em>not</em> how art works when she pauses in front of Nesta, surprised to find Nesta and another fae male blocking the door to her room. In the chaos of getting dressed for the third time that day—a problem she only had because she kept foolishly reevaluating her outfit every time she thought of Rhys and that whole situation with the towel—and trying to get all her supplies together, she hadn’t noticed Nesta and the new fae standing in her room. She notices the telltale signs of annoyance on Nesta’s face as she shifts uneasily in Rhys’ grip. “Is everything okay?”</p><p>Nesta opens her mouth to reply what she really wants to say, which is that everything is decidedly <em>not</em> okay, then catches Rhys’ gaze and thinks the better of it. How would she even explain it, anyway? And whatever it is that’s wrong, it has to do with Tamlin, and Nesta’s already learned that it’s a closed subject as far as Feyre is concerned. “It’s fine,” she lies, swallowing and looking back to her sister with a softer expression than she gave either of the males. “Go to work. I’ll see you tonight.”</p><p>But as Rhys escorts Feyre from the room and trails her down the hallway and the stairs to the front door of the Archeron house, Feyre can’t help feeling that something is going on that people aren’t telling her about…and it may not be something good.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>NESSIAN AHEAD!</p>
<p>And also brief mentions of Tomas being an evil, abusive bastard. </p>
<p>And now, after five chapters in two days, I shall collapse for a couple days and work on When Does a War End? or my new Alarkling story, because I'm a little bit obsessed with the idea for it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nesta is not happy as Cassian follows her down the stairs and back into her office, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck as she does her best to appear perfectly confident and unruffled with the knowledge that Cassian, who she doesn’t appreciate being here, is directly behind her.</p>
<p>She doesn’t like people behind her, she thinks as she grits her teeth and forces herself to keep moving forward and not look back at back him. Especially men. She hasn’t since the day Tomas came up behind her, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and held her down on the bed that way while he did whatever he wanted with her. If Nesta could have her way, everyone would always be in front of her, where she would know exactly what they were up to and figure out how to deal with them.</p>
<p>Especially <em>fae</em> males who invite themselves in as her bodyguard without offering any explanation as to why. Meanwhile, she thinks, Feyre and Rhys are god only knows where and Rhys thinks Feyre is actually in very serious danger, and she was already stretching her limits just by trusting him to keep an eye on her in the first place.  If he’s lucky, Nesta thinks, she won’t turn around and let all her frustration loose on Cassian and—and—she freezes mid-step and blinks, surprised at her own thoughts as she forces herself to take a breath.</p>
<p>Once upon a time, she’d never given much thought to violence and how or what she might do to another living being. Before Tomas, she’d never had any reason to. After Tomas, though, and all the things that he’d done to her…it surprises her sometimes how easily the thoughts slip into her mind.</p>
<p>And it terrifies her just how violent they can be, as if Tomas gifted that piece of him to her after she’d left him behind…and Nesta wants nothing from Tomas, not even that.</p>
<p>Especially that.</p>
<p>Cassian lets out a low whistle as he looks over her office, all dark blues and soft curtains, and her nice oak desk that’s littered with papers. The walls are lined with shelves that are packed with books, with titles that Cassian doesn’t really understand despite mostly working the business side of Inner Court Investigations. He pauses as he waits for Nesta to settle herself beside a bookshelf, standing perfectly straight even as she appears to reach a hand out to a shelf near for her waist for some kind of support. He can tell that she’s not happy, that she’s on edge with his very presence here. He has to play this right, he thinks, or he’ll make an enemy of Nesta and their jobs will just become that much harder. “This is a beautiful office.” He waves a hand around to gesture toward the space—Nesta’s <em>personal</em> space, he reminds himself.</p>
<p>“Yes, it is.” Nesta doesn’t bother with pleasantries or a thank you. She knows it’s a nice office. Her father had a professional come in and design it that way for when he wanted to work from home. Personally, she thinks, she hates it. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to call someone to help?”</p>
<p>Cassian can’t help but be a little impressed by how she absolutely refuses to show how intimidated she might be—she’s even threatening him. “Who would you call?”</p>
<p>“The police,” she says seriously. For a few seconds, Cassian almost scoffs at the idea of human police showing up at the Archeron house to escort him away in handcuffs. Cassian, one of the greatest fae warriors who ever lived, the direct heir of Enalius himself and one of the few to ever achieve the status of being called an Illyrian, brought down a beat cop. It’s quite an image. “And they can call the council and have your visa to work in Hewn City revoked. You and your entire company will be shipped back to wherever it is you come from and never allowed back.”</p>
<p>Well, it’s not the way that Cassian would <em>like</em> to go home, but he would still be going home. <em>Velaris</em>. He shakes his head and takes another few steps toward as she squirms just a little under his gaze and tries to stand even straighter as if to say she will not be intimidated. But Cassian really doesn’t want to intimidate her. If he wanted to intimidate her, this conversation would be going <em>very</em> differently and Cassian would only need a few moments to break her.</p>
<p>Good thing for Nesta that he’s left the breaking business for good. Or, he thinks, he had. He might have to pick it back up, depending on how this case goes.</p>
<p>“Well, since that’s not what I want,” Cassian says smoothly, stopping only a step and a half away from her and leaning against the bookshelves with his massive arms crossed over his chest, “and I suspect that’s not what you want, I guess we better have a conversation.”</p>
<p>Nesta is forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths. She hasn’t been this close to a man since she was married and being this close to a fae male was never something she’d even considered a possibility before. “How would you know what I want?”</p>
<p>Cassian schools his features into the softest, most sincere look he can manage. “I know that you want to keep Feyre safe and that she’s in a lot of danger, and that we can help protect her—and all three of you—from that danger.” He watches Nesta hold his gaze for as long as she can before swallowing anxiously and looking away.</p>
<p>“How bad is it?” There’s a hint of defeat in Nesta’s voice that Cassian doesn’t like. He never did like it when a female was upset, and he can see how hard Nesta’s trying to hold it together.</p>
<p>Just the basics, Cassian thinks. Nothing specific, no details. Not until they know more. “We believe that you’re right about Tamlin stalking Feyre. We think he sent someone to the club last night to try and bring her to him.”</p>
<p>Nesta goes pale as she watches him, the blue eyes that she shares with both of her sisters coming to rest on his face in a sudden, sharp gesture. “What?”</p>
<p>“I need to know everything you can tell me about Tamlin and someone named Lucien,” Cassian explains.</p>
<p>Nesta doesn’t quite seem to hear him, though, still caught on the idea that Tamlin is trying to kidnap Feyre—her sister, her <em>younger</em> sister. The one she hired Rhys and Cassian to protect. <em>Feyre is in real danger</em>. It had just been a concern before, an abstract idea, but now it’s real. Tamlin is really after Feyre. “We—but—if he tried to kidnap her—”</p>
<p>“Rhys was there,” Cassian cuts in, his voice low and calm in an attempt to soothe the rising panic. “Feyre came home safely and she’s under Rhys’ protection right now.”</p>
<p>“But they’re out <em>there</em>,” Nesta snaps back, her fingers pointing in a random direction to emphasize that wherever Rhys and Feyre are right now, it’s not here, in the safety of their home, where Nesta knows she’s okay.</p>
<p>“Yes, but now we know that Feyre really is in danger and she couldn’t be in better hands.” Nesta rolls her eyes and finds herself taking a step back, letting go of a breath that she didn’t realize she was holding until that moment. “Nesta—Nesta,” Cassian reaches forward and tries to grab her shoulder, surprised when Nesta jumps back from him with a wild look in her eye that catches Cassian off guard. It’s more than panic, he realizes, or just concern for her sister. He knows genuine terror when he sees it. He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender to try and calm her down, taking a half step back out of her personal space as he watches her carefully. “I give you my word. I swear it. Rhys is the best at what he does and he will not let anything happen to Feyre.”</p>
<p>And he really won’t, Cassian thinks. Even if there wasn’t more to this case than meets the eye, even if Feyre didn’t somehow know about Velaris, even if Feyre’s Tamlin weren’t the one who had helped Amarantha slaughter his family, Rhysand Night would never let anyone harm someone he’d sworn to protect. He would die to keep his word that she’d be safe.</p>
<p>Cassian knows that he and Azriel would die to keep that word, too. “And neither will I.”</p>
<p>Nesta gazes at him for a long moment, forcing herself to take a shaky breath and ask the question that she really doesn’t want an answer to, that she doesn’t want to have to ask at all. “And what if you’re not strong enough to stop it?”</p>
<p>Cassian won’t even entertain the possibility, not in front of Nesta. He, Rhys, and Azriel will all contemplate what might happen later on, should the worst come, but he can’t let see Nesta that. “We are,” he says softly, reassuringly. He can see the tension in Nesta’s shoulders almost start to melt away as she forces herself to calm down. “But I need you to tell me everything you know about Tamlin and Lucien.”</p>
<p>Nesta watches him, trying to decide if he’s lying and whether she can trust him. She’s inclined not to. She’s inclined not to trust anyone. Sometimes she feels like she hasn’t trusted anyone in so long, she doesn’t even remember how to anymore, what it would be like. Would she even recognize someone she could trust if she saw them, if she believed that they even existed?</p>
<p>“I—I don’t know any Lucien,” she tells finally, shaking her head. “Feyre’s never mentioned him to me. She didn’t like talking much about Tamlin by the end of it, either, though.”</p>
<p>Cassian gives her a slight nod to indicate that he’s paying attention to prompt her to tell him more. “Just start at the beginning.”</p>
<p>Nesta closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to remember all the details in the right order. “She met him…maybe six months ago. She was really excited—she came home that day and said that she’d met the man of her dreams.” Nesta remembers that she’d snorted at the time and made some kind of snarky comment.</p>
<p><em>I don’t think we have any California surfer types in Hewn City, Feyre</em>.</p>
<p>
  <em>Haha, Nesta. You’re <strong>so</strong> funny. But there I was, in the antiques store—you know that one on Plymouth—and I was trying to talk the owner into selling me this one painting. And there he was, like a beautiful golden Adonis.</em>
</p>
<p>She could kick herself for that comment now. She <em>wishes</em> that Feyre had found some deadhead surfer to distract her rather than Tamlin.</p>
<p>“So, he swept her off her feet?”</p>
<p>“No, I mean literally. She’d been painting him for…” Nesta tries to figure out just how long Feyre had been Tamlin. It seemed like… “Years.” She shrugs, unable to help thinking how absurd it all sounds.</p>
<p>Cassian quietly lets out a sharp breath at her words. <em>Years?</em> “And she’d never seen him before? She had no idea who he was?”</p>
<p>“No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Nesta wishes she could just go back upstairs and hide under the covers with a book and a flashlight like she did when she was little, lost in her own private world.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Cassian says gently. “So, what happened next?”</p>
<p>“They started seeing each other. A <em>lot</em>.” Nesta remembers how Feyre started missing the odd family dinners they would have together or how she’d skip a class to be with him. “She’d blow things off to be with him.” That’s part of what concerned her, she thought bitterly. It reminded Nesta of how she used to act with Tomas, how her world kept getting smaller and smaller until it belonged only to him. Nesta was afraid that Feyre would make the same mistakes she did. “It wasn’t like her. But she seemed really happy.”</p>
<p>“What did you think of him?” Cassian is surprised that Nesta is surprised by the question. He’d assumed that she would have an opinion, that she would’ve either been on Feyre’s side from the start and cheering her sister or—well, trying to make sure that Feyre was safe, like she is now.</p>
<p>“I never met him,” she admits softly, the words betraying her own fear as she says them. “We talked to her about it, Elain and I, but Feyre never wanted to bring him around.”</p>
<p>Cassian watches the way her eyes soften, the way her shoulders fall just enough for someone observing very carefully to notice even as she tries not to let it show. “And the break up?”</p>
<p>Nesta sighs and shakes her head, feeling her hair fighting against the pins keeping her French twist in place. “I don’t know what happened. Feyre came home one day and it was over. And then a few weeks later, she started getting these phone calls from Tamlin. I got worried that—” Nesta can’t bring herself to say the list of worries that went through her mind when the calls started, the terrible things that could happen to her sister if Tamlin didn’t figure it out and move on. “So, that’s why I hired you.”</p>
<p>Cassian nods and looks towards the books on the shelf he’s leaning against, eyes catching on some of the dust jackets that don’t seem to fit the books quite right. “But why us?”</p>
<p>Nesta’s gaze turns guarded as she looks at him, unconsciously taking another step back. “Excuse me?”</p>
<p>The movement isn’t lost on Cassian. “Why hire us, Nesta? Why not hire a human firm from here in Hewn City?”</p>
<p>She purses her lips. “You were cheaper.”</p>
<p>Cassian knows a lie when he hears one. “The truth.” His voice is harder as he says it, determined. “It’s important. How did you get our names?”</p>
<p>Nesta won’t budge, though. Not on that. She was sworn to secrecy. She won’t break her word. “Does it matter? Whoever Tamlin is, he has a lot of money and resources. So what if I’d hired some human firm from Hewn City—who’s to say that he wouldn’t just buy them off?”</p>
<p>Cassian’s eyebrow twitches upward slightly as he watches Nesta try to evade the question. “So, you wanted us because we’re fae and you think Tamlin can’t just buy us off?” When Nesta doesn’t immediately respond, Cassian lets out a low chuckle. “Well, that’s interesting since most of the humans seem to think that fae are greedy bastards who’ll do anything for a bit of coin.”</p>
<p>Nesta’s expression hardens as she stares at him. “I don’t recall ever saying anything so vulgar about you or your team.” She had considered it as a possibility, of course, but she hadn’t openly treated Cassian or Rhys in any way that she wouldn’t deal with humans she’d hired.</p>
<p>“That’s not what I—”</p>
<p>“I still don’t understand why <em>you</em> need to be here, either. I don’t remember asking for a bodyguard for myself, and Feyre is the one in danger.”</p>
<p>Cassian huffs as he waits for Nesta to let him speak. “If Tamlin is as dangerous as we think he might be, we want to make sure all three of you are protected. It’s only a precaution.”</p>
<p>“So, you’re going to have someone look after Elain, as well?”</p>
<p>“That’s right.”</p>
<p>“And I should just accept that and go along with it, without any more information?” Nesta thinks that maybe she’s starting to understand Feyre’s perspective a little. “You’re not going to tell me why you think Tamlin is so dangerous or what you know about him?”</p>
<p><em>No</em>. “We’re still gathering information right now. We don’t want to tell you something that we’re not sure of, but we also don’t want to risk you and your sisters.”</p>
<p>Nesta regains some of her earlier bluster and fixes Cassian with a scowl—a motion that Cassian actually finds reassuring. At least it feels a little more like the Nesta he knows, even if he doesn’t know her that well. “And that’s all I get?”</p>
<p><em>Yes</em>. “That’s all I can tell you for right now.”</p>
<p>“Fine.” If there’s one thing she hates, Nesta thinks, it’s being left out of the loop. She pushes away from the bookshelf and turns to walk past Cassian, the sound of her heels softly padding across the carpeted floor as she walks. Cassian turns to follow her and she pauses, freezing him mid-step with a glare that he knows he shouldn’t find attractive but that he still does. “I’m going to go do my work somewhere else in the house and you can stay right here and protect me from the downstairs.”</p>
<p>She leaves without another word to Cassian and he watches her go, admiring the way she somehow manages to walk in those heels and that pencil skirt, her chin held high as she walks to the stairs and disappears onto the second floor. He lets out a long breath at the sound of a door slamming and runs a hand through his long hair. That, he thinks, went well.</p>
<p>He still doesn’t know who referred Nesta to them, Nesta knows that they’re not telling her everything, and he gets that feeling that none of the sisters are going to be happy with having bodyguards around.</p>
<p>But he also doubts that Nesta is going to turn them away, either. She’s too afraid that something terrible really is going to happen. Nesta’s going to let them stay as long as she thinks they can protect her and her family.</p>
<p>He moves away from the bookshelf and turns to leave, determined to use the time without Nesta around to survey the downstairs and get ready to set up some security measures. He’s about to walk out of the room when he pauses at the book with the ill-fitting dust jacket, pulling it from the shelf curiously and turning it over in his hands. <em>The Blue Ocean Strategy</em>. It’s supposed a book about business strategy. The more closely he looks at it, though, the more he can tell that the jacket doesn’t fit the book. He flips the book open enough to slide the jacket off, reexamining it without the cover hiding what the book really is.</p>
<p><em>The Duke and His Bride</em>. Cassian’s lips quirk up into a grin. A romance novel. He looks back up at the shelf and grabs another book that doesn’t look right. <em>Forbidden Fire</em>. He reaches for another one. <em>The Maid, The Billionaire, and The Baby</em>. Cassian glances back to the door Nesta left from, replaying scenes of stern, prickly Nesta in his mind as he holds what appear to be her hidden romance novels.</p>
<p>He’ll have to remember this, he thinks. Nesta may be all prickly bluster on the outside, but secretly she’s a romantic.</p>
<p>He thinks he would probably enjoy romancing a woman like that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First of all.</p>
<p>WE MADE IT TO 2021. I AM SO PROUD OF US. OMG. I THOUGHT 2020 WAS NEVER GOING TO END. I HAVE SO MANY PLANS FOR THIS YEAR.</p>
<p>Not really. I'm still stuck at home. But I am updating now.</p>
<p>Also, I'm completely amazed at the statistics on this story. 1500 hits and 100 kudos? And I made 60 pages and 30,000 words? Like, what is happening here? How awesome is this? I don't know how many people are really sticking around for this story, but anyone reading, just, you're all awesome?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If Feyre was having trouble focusing before, then she’s in absolute hell now. She’d managed to talk her teacher into letting her use the studio to try and do some work on some of her paintings, hoping that even if she just sat and reproduced some of her older works, maybe it would inspire her. Maybe, she thought, it would motivate her to keep going.</p>
<p>Maybe she’d make something new.</p>
<p>Maybe she’d get the lighting all the wrong, screw up the perspective, smear paint to destroy the details she was trying to enhance, and generally just hate every stroke of her brush and feel her soul gradually being crushed under the weight of her own failure.</p>
<p>She knew she needed to grab her favorite brushes. “Dammit.”</p>
<p>Rhys has been trying his best to wait where he’s leaning against the wall behind her—he really has. But it’s already been an hour, he’s hungry, he feels gross from not bathing, and he’s been watching Feyre’s brush move over the canvas just before she reconsiders her last stroke and tries to smudge it out of existence since they got here. He sighs and walks toward her, leaning over her shoulder in a display similar to the one from the last time they were in this studio together. “<em>What</em> is the problem?”</p>
<p>Feyre scowls at his presence, his proximity a reminder of the fact that not so long ago that she was still naked and wet and doing internet research on fae mating rituals. “The problem,” she huffs, “is <em>you</em> being here.”</p>
<p>Rhys scoffs in her ear, his presence uncomfortably warm next to her in the empty room they’re sharing. “That’s not the problem and you know it.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Feyre has to lean back to find enough personal space to glare at him, blue eyes flashing with annoyance.</p>
<p>“Yes, really.”</p>
<p>“And <em>how</em>, pray tell, do you know that?”</p>
<p>Rhys gives her a grin, refusing to back away from her personal space. He’s had enough of Feyre being a brat today and he’s starving—this, he thinks, ends now. “Because if that were the problem, then you would’ve made all kinds of progress yesterday, when I was kicked out of the room.”</p>
<p>He has a point, Feyre thinks, which only works to frustrate her more. “Maybe you’re a muse killer,” she suggests with a small, pouting voice.</p>
<p>“Feyre, darling, as I’ve told you already, if you want me to be your muse, all you need to do is ask.” The comment actually gives Rhys a little start as he realizes how much more he means them now than he did only yesterday, when it just a joke.</p>
<p>Yesterday, when he hadn’t seen her naked and she hadn’t stumbled into him, and he hadn’t figured out that there’s something about Feyre that connects her to Velaris. Would he strip naked and be her muse now? If it meant getting more information about whatever the hell is going on, then sure.</p>
<p>Cauldron knows he’d done worse than that for Amarantha, both willingly and unwillingly.</p>
<p>A blush creeps up Feyre’s neck, but she’s determined to ignore it and push her embarrassment down. “I can honestly say, Rhysand Night, that I’d sooner fail out of school than see you naked.”</p>
<p>Lie, she thinks. Big lie.</p>
<p>Huge, massive, whopping catfish of a lie.</p>
<p>That picture of the fae female with her legs spread wide as the male slams his hips into hers comes to her mind without her permission and Feyre has to turn her attention back to the messy canvas in front of her to get it out of her head.</p>
<p>“Well, then, I guess you’ll just have to fail out of art school,” Rhys says lightly, waving a hand as if it’s an inevitable conclusion. “You’ll probably go to work for your sister. Maybe you’ll be a secretary—if you’re lucky and you can type. Can you type?”</p>
<p>Feyre is caught on the idea of failing school and being stuck working for Nesta, in a job that they both hate, and takes a few seconds to comprehend the question. “What?”</p>
<p>“Can you type?” Rhys repeats himself.</p>
<p>“N-not really,” Feyre says weakly. Rhys sighs and shakes his dramatically.</p>
<p>“Not good, Feyre.”</p>
<p>“Not good?”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>.” Rhys gives her not-painting a serious look as he continues. “With no marketable skills outside the art world, you’ll end up as a waitress or maybe a grocery store clerk somewhere. Oh, you’ll make enough money to get by, especially if you still live with Nesta. You’ll even continue to practice your art in your spare time.” He gestures toward the not-painting in front of her. “But every day you go to work, your soul will die just a little bit more under the weight of societal expectations and your own failure to pursue your passion.” He doesn’t have to look at Feyre to know she’s sinking in her seat as he talks, her shoulders slumping further in fear and defeat every second. “How great an artist can you be if you couldn’t even finish your graduation portfolio? How can you claim that it’s your dream, your passion, if you can’t even finish one measly painting of a—what is this supposed to be?” He glances at Feyre from the corner of his eye.</p>
<p>Feyre really doesn’t want to answer. “A meadow?” She squeaks the words out, fear and doubt in her voice.</p>
<p>“If you can’t do one measly painting of a meadow,” Rhys finishes, sighing and shaking his head again. “People will look at you and say, ‘poor Feyre Archeron—she used to be a great artist…look at her now’.”</p>
<p>If he’s trying to make Feyre depressed, she thinks, he’s doing a damn good job of it. “They will?”</p>
<p>“Yep.” He gives her a look of pity. “Poor, pathetic Feyre Archeron.”</p>
<p>They sit in silence like that for what seems like an eternity, Rhys reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder as he gazes solemnly at her painting and she gazes at Rhys, looking like she might cry. Then Rhys’ stomach growls and Rhys’ solemn expression slips. Feyre glances between Rhys’ face and his stomach, the wheels in her mind starting to turn as she rehashes the conversation that just happened in her head.</p>
<p>She opens her mouth to speak, pauses when she thinks the better of it, then continues. “Did you just torture me with the idea of my own failure as motivation, or because you’re hungry and just feeling pissy this morning?”</p>
<p>Rhys doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t break his gaze from her not-painting. “You made me skip breakfast.”</p>
<p>“You’re such an asshole.”</p>
<p>“You made me skip breakfast,” he repeats. “<em>And</em> a shower.”</p>
<p>Feyre’s face is actually sore from scowling at Rhys so deeply. “Poor fae baby. He missed his breakfast and a shower. You probably don’t even need a shower,” Feyre says dismissively. “You probably have some kind of fae magic that lets you just wave your hand and suddenly you’re perfect again.”</p>
<p>Rhys’ lips twitch in amusement as he looks toward Feyre now. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t done that in years,” he replies. “But I like that you’ve admitted to yourself that I’m perfect.”</p>
<p>Feyre’s eyes narrow at Rhys turning her comments around on her. She sets her brush down on her palette and folds her arms over her chest, glaring at him. “What do fae even eat, anyway? The blood of poor, innocent virgins?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Rhys answers in his most serious voice, his grin wide and predatory as he shows her his canines. Feyre pales at the matter-of-fact response, as if she believes him, and Rhys chuckles darkly.</p>
<p>“You know, you could <em>try</em> to be more agreeable.”</p>
<p>The comment irks Rhys, who’s tried to be agreeable since this job started and only been met with Feyre’s resistance and stubborn immaturity. “You could try not to antagonize the one who’s supposed to be protecting you.”</p>
<p>“I would try not to antagonize my protector if I thought that I actually needed protection,” Feyre replies smartly. “But since I don’t, you’re more like a nuisance and I don’t care if I antagonize you.”</p>
<p>Rhys’ predatory grin grows wide and dangerous as he looks at Feyre. “If you don’t treat the nuisance with respect, you may start needing protection from <em>him</em>.” Rhys’ stomach growls again, so loud that Rhys grits his teeth and Feyre gives him a small smirk. “Especially if you don’t let him eat breakfast.”</p>
<p>Feyre gazes at him for a long moment, her eyebrows raising with curiosity. She doesn’t like Rhysand. She doesn’t like that he’s here and she’s stuck with him, and she can’t get her damn work done, and she <em>will</em> have to drop out of school and go to work for Nesta at this rate. “Fine.” She makes sure that she has what she needs in her bag and sets her supplies neatly near her easel. “I’m not making any progress, anyway. So, why don’t we go get you some food?”</p>
<p>Her turn around makes Rhys narrow his eyes in suspicion as he leans over her, glaring down at the insignificant human girl who seems to exist just to give him problems at the moment. “Really?”</p>
<p>“Well, I can’t have my protector passing out from hunger,” she says innocently, her eyes wide. “I wouldn’t be able to move your fae ass and would have to leave you here, and what would the school think then?”</p>
<p>“They probably wouldn’t notice. Humans don’t care that much about what happens to fae,” Rhys says seriously, as if he’s remembering what happened yesterday when that classmate of Feyre’s called him fae scum and for a moment, Feyre actually feels for him a little. “And they would be too distracted your shitty painting.”</p>
<p>The moment ends and Feyre’s scowl returns. She jumps from her seat, not caring how close to Rhys it brings her as she nearly shoves her body against his before taking a few steps back. “You probably wouldn’t know decent art if it came up behind you and bit you on the ass.”</p>
<p>“Darling, fae are <em>known</em> for their taste in art and music. I can’t be blamed if our standards are simply above your ability to produce.” He gestures toward the painting in demonstration of her poor artistic talent and Feyre gasps at the insult.</p>
<p>“Well, maybe you should go back to the other side of the wall where the art is more in line with your <em>standards</em>.”</p>
<p>Rhys lets out a low growl as he takes a step Feyre, a fresh wave of hunger washing over him, and reaches for her arm, gripping it firmly. “Maybe after I’ve eaten some breakfast,” Rhys says tightly. “I would prefer something from a restaurant, but if you’re intent on being difficult or making me chase after you again, I can always settle for a little long pig instead.”</p>
<p>Feyre tries her best to look unaffected by the threat, even if she does secretly wonder whether Rhys means it. “You wouldn’t.” She tries to emulate Nesta and stare him down, her shoulders back and her back straight, determined and confident as she meets Rhys’ gaze. It surprises him that she stands her ground—a good surprise, if only because it’s amusing and another layer to mystery that is Feyre Archeron.</p>
<p>“You’re right,” Rhys agrees in defeat. A big smile of triumph pulls at Feyre’s lips as she looks at Rhys smugly. “I wouldn’t do that.” He pauses for dramatic effect as Feyre thinks she’s won. Then he adds quickly, “But I would do this.”</p>
<p>Before Feyre has time to register what’s happening to her, Rhys has charged forward and lifted her up with ease, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and adjusting her where he wants her while she squeals and pounds against his back. “<em>Put me down</em>. <em>Put me down right now.</em>”</p>
<p>“I’m going to go get some breakfast, and you’re going to come with me if I have to carry you like this the entire time.”</p>
<p>“<strong>You’re such an asshole, Rhysand Night</strong>.” Feyre keeps pounding at his back as Rhys just smirks and agrees with her.</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>Rhys is true to his word—he carries her like that the entire way out of the school as Feyre is yelling and slamming her fists against his back, refusing to stop and let her down until he’s found himself some breakfast.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Feyre is not happy as she sits in the diner and watches Rhys eat a greasy hamburger—well done, with an extra slice of cheese and <em>extra</em> bacon, she mentally tallies, remembering Rhys’ order after they sat down.</p>
<p>Sat, she thinks with a <em>hmph</em>, or got tossed down into the seat in her case. She leans back in her seat with her most displeased expression, lips drawn down into a full scowl and eyes narrowed as her arms are crossed over her chest and she refuses to have any of the soda and fries Rhys treated her to. She’s absolutely not going to cooperate, she thinks, not after the way this day is going. She’s got a mind to let Rhys have it, if she’s being perfectly honest. What she’d really like to do is leap across the table and—and—okay, Feyre’s not sure what she’d do, but she’d sure as hell do something and it wouldn’t be something that Rhys would enjoy.</p>
<p>She doesn’t think.</p>
<p>Feyre watches Rhys take a giant bite of his greasy, overstuffed burger, chewing silently, and feels a little of the steam give way, just a tiny bit, to her own curiosity. She’s surprised with herself when she actually asks the question. “So, how does it work, then?”</p>
<p>Rhys’ eyebrows go up in surprise when she asks it, his deep violet eyes bright in the mid-day light from where they’d seated at the back of the diner next to the window. He’d made a strategic choice with this table so he could avoid too many glances from the other customers or any trouble from someone who might be anti-fae. It hadn’t stopped the waitress from taking a step back when she realized what he was and giving him a long once-over, apparently torn between physical attraction and whatever she might believe about fae as a race. As a whole, though, the meal had been quiet until now.</p>
<p>Rhys chews his burger for a long moment, then licks the taste of ketchup off his lips before he replies. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“How does it work?” Feyre repeats the question, shrugging her shoulders. “This whole <em>fae</em> thing?”</p>
<p>Rhys feels an eye twitch as his lips quirk upward. “This whole <em>fae</em> thing?” His voice is tinged with disbelief and confusion, as well a tiny bit of amusement.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>Rhys watches Feyre long enough that she almost starts to squirm from the scrutiny, self-conscious from the question and the attention it’s bringing her—as if, maybe, she crossed some line of politeness that she wasn’t supposed to. “Could you be more specific?”</p>
<p>Feyre wants to breathe a sigh of relief when Rhys finally responds, but she manages to stop herself. She considers his response, trying to decide what exactly she wants answers to and in what order. “Eating.”</p>
<p>“Do you not know how to eat, Feyre, darling?” Rhys feigns concern as he looks at her. “I would’ve thought that you’d have mastered that skill by now—no wonder you’re so thin.”</p>
<p>Feyre is almost that scowling so much is going to permanently alter her face. “<em>I mean</em>,” her voice is sharp with emphasis, “can you just eat anything? Do fae like to eat specific foods? Do you have to avoid garlic? How often do you eat? How does it work?”</p>
<p>Rhys can’t decide what stuns him more—the fact that Feyre actually doesn’t know these things or the fact that she’s even asking. He’s tempted to respond with something snide or snarky, but even though he thinks Feyre should know the answer already, since it’s not like fae are really <em>that</em> different, he can tell that she’s interested. Or maybe, he thinks, he’s just hoping that she’s interested because it would be a welcome change from everyone assuming the worst or believing whatever lies and rumors are passed around. But either way, he’s going to give it a try. He watches her over his burger for another few seconds before he responds. “We’re a lot like humans, actually.”</p>
<p>Rhys doesn’t miss that Feyre sits up in her seat a little taller, eyes brightening with interest.</p>
<p>“We eat three times a day,” Rhys explains, mentally adding <em>if we’re lucky</em>. “We eat the same foods.” <em>Except for that time when we ate humans, that is, but then humans have done <strong>that</strong> before, too</em>. “And we’re not vampires—I’m actually rather fond of garlic.”</p>
<p>Feyre takes the information in stride, biting the inside of her mouth when Rhys says that fae are not vampires. She glances away from him, looking out the window and deciding what to ask next, peeking at him from the corner of her eye. “So, then…if you eat the same way…do you…” The question trails off. Feyre isn’t sure how to finish it or if she even has the guts to.</p>
<p>Rhys figures out what she’s asking easily enough, though, and manages to keep from snorting at the question—something that he thinks is a great accomplishment, given the conversation. “Do I need to shit, Feyre?” He’s satisfied when she blushes at his colorful interpretation. “Not right now, but this is a really greasy burger and I did skip breakfast, so don’t be surprised when I carry you into the bathroom with me.”</p>
<p>“That’s disgusting.”</p>
<p>“You asked.” Before Feyre can respond with something snippy or feel too foolish to ask anything else, Rhys responds, “What else do you want to know?”</p>
<p>If she was surprised at the fact that she actually asked the question, she’s even more surprised that he’s giving her permission to ask more. She looks to him now, posture relaxing as he politely waits and takes another bite from his burger. Feyre bites her lower lip and thinks for a long moment. “Is everything the same? I mean, do you…have relationships?”</p>
<p>What she really wants to know about is how much of what she read online is true, but she’s definitely not ballsy enough to ask it.</p>
<p>Rhys finishes his bite of food before replying. “Do you mean friendships or dating?”</p>
<p>Feyre thinks for a second. “Both,” she decides.</p>
<p>“We have friends. We have relationships. We get married and have families.” For a second, Rhys’ mind goes to his own friends, the people who’ve come with him to Hewn City, and his family in Velaris before they were killed.</p>
<p>“And mates?” Feyre’s cheeks are burning and her voice is squeaking as she asks it. Rhys grins at the question, silently enjoying that Feyre is still bothered by Rhys’ earlier claim that they’re mates now.</p>
<p>“Why, Feyre, darling—are you asking about how long before I steal you away from here to have my wicked ways with you?” Rhys is satisfied at the look she gives him, as if she’s a deer in the headlights and Rhys is her imminent doom. “Or perhaps we should just see how sturdy your bed is back home. Would you like that?”</p>
<p><em>Yes</em>.</p>
<p>Feyre blinks at the word at she thinks it, surprised and terrified by it. She doesn’t say anything and Rhys lets it go, watching her every move as she tries not to look uncomfortable. She swallows nervously. “What about the wall?”</p>
<p>“What about the wall?” Rhys echoes the question.</p>
<p>Feyre sighs. “Well…what is it like…you know, on the other side?”</p>
<p>Rhys thinks back to his home, then, before and the last war. “It was…” His voice is almost hollow as he speaks, trying to assume some kind of distance from what it was before all the devastation so he doesn’t have to feel the pain of it all being irrevocably changed. “Beautiful. There were so many artists and musicians. You could walk down the street on the weekends and everywhere you looked would be filled with life.” The smile that twists his lips then is bittersweet. “I used to sit at the café by the river with—” Rhys pauses at the thought, <em>my mother and sister</em>, clenching his teeth for a second before forcing himself to continue. “And just take it all in. The people. The music. The peace and joy of it all.”</p>
<p><em>Velaris</em>. There’s nowhere else like it in all the world, and there never will be again once it finally fades.</p>
<p>He hasn’t been to that place in years, to that riverside. He hasn’t heard that music. It was too hard after losing his mother and sister. He saved Velaris, Rhys thinks, but he didn’t save it for him.</p>
<p>Not that part of it, at least.</p>
<p>Feyre is uncertain when she prompts Rhys for more, eyes fixed on him. “And now?”</p>
<p>Rhys’ gaze is distant for a few moments before he finally meets her again, his expression dark. “And now…there’s a reason that some fae are petitioning to live in Hewn City.”</p>
<p>Feyre doesn’t know how to respond to that. She feels like she should say something, but she’s not sure what. She looks away from Rhys, unable to hold his gaze any longer and turns back toward the window, her arms crossed over her chest now as a gesture of trying to comfort herself rather than one of frustration.</p>
<p>Rhys notices the change and takes another look at his burger. His appetite has lessened now between the grease and talking about home. And, he mentally adds, the change in the atmosphere between himself and Feyre. The easiness with which they’d been arguing and taunting each day has settled into something more uncomfortable and Rhys doesn’t like it. He sets the burger down on his plate and wipes his hands on the napkin, watching Feyre as she determinedly doesn’t meet his gaze. “Tell me about your art.”</p>
<p>Feyre barks out a laugh of derision before she can stop herself. “What art?” She sinks a little in her seat as she remembers that she hasn’t really worked in days.</p>
<p>“The art you make when you <em>are</em> inspired,” he clarifies. “Tell me about your art show.”</p>
<p>Now Feyre can’t meet his gaze for another reason. Suddenly, it all seems too personal to talk about with Rhys. All those paintings that she worked so hard on—paintings that are <em>not</em> lousy meadows—and passed in as some of her best work. Paintings that she spent weeks working on and perfecting. She hasn’t even talked about them with her sisters or her professors. “It’s nothing.”</p>
<p>Rhys is intrigued by the fact that she doesn’t want to talk about it. “It’s not nothing if you care about it,” he insists gently. “Tell me.” <em>Tell me how you know about Velaris.</em></p>
<p>Feyre side eyes Rhys for a few seconds before sighing and turning toward him again, still not quite meeting his gaze. “It’s…it’s just…” It sounds stupid, Feyre thinks, to say it out loud. But Rhys waits patiently. If he can diffuse some of the tension between them, he will. It’ll make his job easier and help him get answers a lot faster.</p>
<p>And besides, now <em>he’s</em> the one who’s curious. “You can tell me, Feyre,” Rhys prompts her, his expression sincere. She finally meets his gaze, melting a little under the gentleness of it.</p>
<p>It still sounds stupid, she thinks, but she’s not quite as self-conscious about it. “I paint what I dream, mostly.”</p>
<p>Rhys feels his breath catch, remembering the sketches of Velaris and the portraits back in her room. <em>Has she been dreaming about them?</em> “What do you dream about?”</p>
<p>Feyre watches Rhys, trying to figure out what to respond. She frowns in thought, opening and closing her mouth a couple of times to explain it and then changing her mind. “I don’t know,” she admits quietly. “Sometimes, it’s…really scary. Fighting and…people getting hurt. And other times, it’s just...faces. Or places I’ve never seen before.” Her throat feels dry when she swallows and shrugs, unsure of how to act or how to explain any of it. “And sometimes, I dream about…strange things…like…” She shakes her head, silently laughing at how dumb it sounds and how dumb she feels saying it. “Tattoos. Curvy, wavy tattoos that trail over…” She pauses, stopping herself from finishing the thought.</p>
<p><em>Tattoos that trail over a man’s bare chest</em>.</p>
<p>Rhys is so still as he listens to Feyre that he feels frozen in place. Tattoos?</p>
<p>
  <em>Tattoos like his? Or Cassian? Azriel?</em>
</p>
<p>“Anyway,” Feyre clears her throat and forces herself to try and act normally, raising her voice to a normal level. “That’s my graduation project, and about half of it is going to be in the art show. I’m calling my collection ‘The Night Court’.”</p>
<p>Rhys’ body goes so still at the name, he thinks maybe his heart has stopped beating.</p>
<p>Velaris. <em>The Night Court.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>DUN DUN DUN</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have decided to torture everyone (including myself) by posting one chapter at a time, because I'm so far behind what I have for this fic. I've just been swamped with stuff and stressed, and haven't had as much time to sit and go through my writing for this story in particular. But because I do have extra stuff, that means that I'm just going to be posting more of it tomorrow and pretty regularly again, since I've been steadily going through and doing edit and stuff.</p>
<p>So, thanks to anyone still hanging around to read this while I've been crazy stressed and distracting myself with writing smut for other fandoms. I'm so sorry for making you sit and wait. But hey, Azriel shows up in this chapter, and there's definitely more to come from him!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Azriel is not particularly fond of Hewn City, if he’s being honest. He doesn’t like the congested the roads and the cars that humans drive—more polluting to the environment than any fae model ever made, hideously ugly, and poorly made. He doesn’t like the music and doesn’t understand the human obsession with playing the bass so loud that everything vibrates and you can’t even appreciate the melody. He doesn’t even like the work all that much.</p>
<p>Humans, he’s found, are typically boring, hypocritical, less concerned with hygiene than they claim to be, and everyone wants to shake everyone else’s hands. Why do all these humans want to shake each other’s hands? Azriel can’t think of a single fae that he’d want to shake hands with, let alone a human who can’t be bothered to understand basic handwashing etiquette.</p>
<p>Or hugging. Why do they keep wanting to hug everyone? He remembers that case they worked on a few weeks ago, where a mother had hired them to find her runaway daughter. They had found the girl and helped her get home, and her mother had cried and happily hugged each of them in turn. Well, each of the others. She had paused when she’d seen the dark expression on Azriel’s face and had given him a look that said that she was clearly reconsidering this whole hugging thing. Then she’d shrugged and done it anyway, and Azriel had reluctantly let her do it and told himself that it was only because it was something that she found comforting that he was putting with it since he <em>obviously</em> did not enjoy hugs himself. He’d glared at the others while she’d done it, too, as they kept snickering and making poor attempts to hide their amusement at his discomfort.</p>
<p><em>Humans</em>, Azriel thinks with a groan.</p>
<p>No, the reason that Azriel is here is because of Rhysand. Because Rhysand convinced him that it was a good idea. We’ll go work in Hewn City for a while, he’d said. There’s no money here, he’d said. There’ll be more work there, and we’ll save up, and then we’ll return to our side of the wall. We’re doing this to save Velaris, he said.</p>
<p>How could Azriel say no to that? Everything they’d done had been to save Velaris—from Amarantha, from Hybern. They’d given up so much to keep it protected that they could hardly stop now, even if the main threat to it is the lack of work and resources to keep the fae there going. Velaris has always been such a special place, and now it’s just like the rest of the fae territory.</p>
<p>No money. Few jobs. Barely enough to go around and everyone’s just scraping by, and the humans are putting so much pressure on them with these new restrictions that it’s only a matter of time until everything falls apart.</p>
<p>And Azriel is going to be stuck here when it happens, in this human cesspool, taking shitty jobs and trying to hold his own around Rhys and tell himself that he didn’t come here <em>for</em> him. He came here because of him. Because he <em>talked</em> Azriel into it.</p>
<p>Not because Azriel has any lingering emotional attachment to him.</p>
<p>At least, Azriel thinks as he stares up at the Archeron house, impressively large and well-landscaped and dignified, this case is actually<em> interesting</em>. He crosses the paved walkway up the front door, eyeing little details of the home carefully. When he’s ready, he walks to the front and gives it a short, heavy knock, his meaty palm rapping against the study wood in a way that Cassian knows belongs only to Azriel. The door opens with a dramatic flair as Cassian grins at Azriel, waving the door open widely and gesturing for him to come inside. “<em>Finally</em>. You’re back. Took you long enough.”</p>
<p>Azriel gives him a stony look, taking a cautious step inside and eyeing the front room warily. “It’s not my fault the job is more complicated than expected.” He purses his lips with distaste as he turns toward Cassian, deciding that the house, and likely its occupants, are harmless enough. “<em>You</em> were the one who took this job.”</p>
<p>Cassian doesn’t miss the accusation in Azriel’s words, but it doesn’t bother him. “What—would you have preferred that we take another cheating spouse job? You didn’t strike me as the type who liked to camp out in rose bushes and take dirty pictures, Az, but if you prefer, I’m sure Amren can find you some other work.”</p>
<p>Azriel is about to respond with something scathing when a couple of females in the next room catch his attention as they yell. “<em>You’ve got to be fucking kidding me</em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>Don’t look at me like that—this is <strong>not</strong> my fault.</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>Not <strong>your</strong> fault? You’re the one who overreacted in the first place, and now you’re saying that <strong>I </strong>have to have a babysitter, too?</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>It’s not a babysitter, it’s a bodyguard, and it’s for your own good</em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>It’s not a bodyguard, it’s a fucking fae, and it sure as hell isn’t for my own good because I don’t fucking want it</em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>Could you at least pretend to have some self-control—</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>You have no right to tell me to do any—</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>I <strong>am</strong> your older sister—</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>This is a fucking nightmare</em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>Would you just listen—</em>”</p>
<p>The door to Nesta’s office slams open and Elain charges out, face contorted into a scowl that only gets worse when she sees Cassian standing there, probably having heard the entire argument. And it was definitely an argument, she thinks in frustration, caused entirely by Nesta and her goddamned frustrating concern for Feyre and now the two of them, as well. Elain doesn’t need a bodyguard—she needs some actual space from her sister, who’s trying too fucking hard to play at keeping the family together after all the shit that’s happened. She needs to be able to come and go as she pleases, run her business, save her money, and buy her own place. Elain has plans, she thinks, and she needs to follow through on them.</p>
<p>She does <em>not</em> need to be saddled with some ridiculous fae bodyguard who will only get in her way and keep her from getting her work done.</p>
<p>“Ladies,” Cassian greets them, unphased by the hateful look on Elain’s face. He looks toward Nesta, half-checking to see how she’s doing after Elain’s reaction, but Nesta is as much on guard now as Azriel is beside him, faces revealing nothing unnecessarily. “I take it you told her the news?”</p>
<p>Azriel’s hazel eyes move between Cassian and the two females—Nesta and Elain, he quickly surmises. It isn’t hard to figure out, of course. Cassian talked about the first sister enough after he got them the job that Azriel could have recognized them from miles away.</p>
<p>“She told me that you and <em>Rhys</em> have come up with some bullshit story that all of us need protecting now, and you’re trying to force some fae male on me,” Elain quickly accuses, not trying to hide her opinions on the matter in the slightest as she glares at him.</p>
<p>Cassian, however, takes the comment in stride. If ever there’s a human woman who is going to bother him, <em>really</em> bother him, it won’t be this one. “Azriel would never dream of forcing himself on you—would you, Azriel?”</p>
<p>Azriel’s gaze turns sharply to Cassian, who did nothing to warn him of this new development and his new job as bodyguard for an Archeron sister. “<em>No</em>,” he replies, the word sharp and clipped as he gazes at Cassian. He turns toward Elain, forcing himself to appear relaxed and take a small step toward Elain as if the entire introduction is something casual and not to be concerned over. “I’m only here to make sure you’re safe, as a precaution.”</p>
<p>Elain isn’t convinced. She heard almost the same thing from Nesta, who she’s certain heard almost the same thing from Rhys and Cassian. As a precaution. As a precaution for what, she wonders. Surely, if Tamlin really is dangerous, whatever he’s into wouldn’t require an entire team of bodyguards. They could just call the police, who would better equipped a human situation like this, anyway. No, this whole situation has been blown completely out of proportion and Elain doesn’t want to have any part in it.</p>
<p>At least, she thinks as she looks at Azriel, one delicate eyebrow raised as her face visibly softens, she doesn’t want to have any part in making it any worse. And she certainly doesn’t want to give Azriel a bad impression. “I’m sure that really isn’t necessary. This is all a big misunderstanding. I’ll be fine, and I do have a business to run.”</p>
<p>Cassian tries to hide his amusement as Azriel gives her an interested look. It’s always entertaining to see Azriel work, especially when it comes to females and human women. “And what kind of business do you run, Ms. Archeron?”</p>
<p>Elain is a little put off by the title and by Azriel’s steady gaze, but it doesn’t stop her from pushing forward. She has work to do. She doesn’t want to participate in this. She isn’t going to cooperate.</p>
<p>She hopes her hair isn’t a mess. Oh god, did she clean the dirt off her jeans before she left the store today?</p>
<p>“I run a greenhouse and landscaping business.” Her pride is obvious from her voice and the way she holds herself when she tells him, shoulders back and head held high as her eyes gaze at him brightly.</p>
<p>Azriel appears impressed when he hears this, taking another step toward her and turning casually toward the front door. “Then you must be the one who did the front yard?”</p>
<p>Elain looks between Azriel and the door, her face warming a little. “Yes, I did.”</p>
<p>“It’s beautiful. I was admiring it on my way in. You must be very talented.”</p>
<p>Elain couldn’t hide the color in her cheeks if she tried, not realizing that she’s taking another step toward Azriel as she bubbles with joy at the compliment. “Thank you, I am. In fact, I just started a new project for the city.”</p>
<p>It doesn’t take much effort to get Elain talking and Azriel follows her as she leads her to another room to show him her plans for a new garden, Azriel sneaking another sharp, unreadable look at Cassian as he goes.</p>
<p>“He had <em>better</em> know to keep his hands to himself.” Nesta crosses her arms over her chest as she watches the two of them leave, not at all happy with the way either of them are acting. Elain needs to take this more seriously, she thinks, and Azriel had better not cross any boundaries.</p>
<p>“You don’t need to worry about Azriel. He knows what he’s doing.” The thought of it actually makes Cassian grin as he stares after them. He’s seen fae females and human woman fall all over themselves for Azriel before. “There’s no one better at what he does.”</p>
<p>“<em>Really</em>?” Nesta isn’t impressed. Cassian is starting to wonder if Nesta is ever impressed by anything except by her own worst fears being confirmed. “And what is it that Azriel does?”</p>
<p><em>He runs a spy network and tortures humans and fae for information.</em> Well, Cassian thinks, he used to. Most of the spy network broke down after the last war, and he hasn’t had any use for torture for a while, but he doesn’t plan to inform Nesta about any of those things. “He charms people.”</p>
<p>Cassian’s assurances don’t make Nesta feel any better.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kudos and comments are *always* appreciated as I live for external validation.</p><p>And cookies.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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